My inner voice, affectionately named Brunhilda, often pops up in my writing. She is a bit of a crank with zero filter; overly opinionated, and I often have a hard time keeping a lid on her pie hole..."Did someone just mention pie??? I looooove cherry pie, let's go...Village Inn it is...you don't need makeup, just throw on a pair of hub's sweat pants, they make you look thinner---Huuuurrrrrrry, I'm starved!!!"

See what I mean...
I was between jobs two years ago when our first grandchild was born. A few days following his birth, I was offered a position I had recently interviewed for. While sharing the news with my son and daughter-in-law, I was asked to consider babysitting our new love when his mommy returned to full-time work.

With my husband's support of the reduction in income nannygranny'ing would bestow, I accepted with a full heart, and celebrated with dessert. 

The following morning and less than 24 hours after accepting the new position, I called my brand new boss and resigned from it. Talk about awkward.  

Brunhilda was quick to release her snark trigger ... "There goes a better retirement, paid benefits and skinny jeans. You are going to blow up faster than a chubby puppy at a bacon bliss party!"  I hate it when the little bitch is right on the money, as well as the chubby.

Fast forward a year when 'awkward' took flight to a new level of OOOOOOPSIE. Bruni suggested I use the Urban Dictionary's definition submitted by someone who goes by viva_la_gloria on July 28, 2009:  awkward - Having your flatmate walk in on you while you are making out with yourself in the mirror, moaning and saying in a deep sexy voice,"oh baby."

Brunhilda piped in, "Remember when you used to do that in the hall bathroom behind a locked door?" 

I reminded Bruni, I was thirteen years old and had never been kissed by a boy. I considered it preparational resourcing. She snickered "Try fifteen and still never kissed." The little bitch was on a roll.

I wasn't sufficiently prepared for the weight gain and lack of caloric discipline a less active lifestyle and heavy rocking would impart on my wardrobe.

I gained nearly a half pound for each month of my grandson's life, seemingly matching his own explosive growth.  Two and half years later, I was approaching the minimum weight requirement for a Cardinal's linebacker.  

Who knew the reduced stress of earning a living, and an accessible kitchen affording 'round the clock' nibbling could be so expansive. Factor in a marked nosedive of slowed metabolism aging brings to the table, and I find myself heading toward obesity on a fast train to short, fat and jolly.  Brunhilda hopes the train ride comes with a phenomenal dessert tray.

Following my mom's death in 2002, I saved a denim MooMoo of hers, along with a few other favorite garments she owned for sentimental reasons. There have been a few times 'sentimental' made it out of the closet and onto MarMar's person.

One evening as I prepared to take my overweight mastiff on a walk, my husband refused to join us 'fatties' unless I changed out of "old moo." That was the moment I considered it might be time to either start juicing, or get fitted for a muzzle like the one my rescued mastiff sported following two attempts at eating our other dog three weeks after I rescued her. Golden Doodle Noodle casserole was removed from Princess's menu when the muzzle rule was enforced.

I was in dire need of a juicer or a muzzle. A juicer would eliminate scaring the grandbaby with Hanni-Granny-Lector nightmares.

A refreshing glass of alfalfa/carrot/kale/celery juice instead of a chocolate chip/oatmeal/sugar cookie -- who's in? Brunhilda mimicked a cricket chirping in my left ear, before sharing "When have you ever eaten 'A' cookie??" The little bitch had 'A' point.

My 'texting for trouble' incident coincided with our daughter and son-in-law adding a puppy to their family; a cute little bulldog named Leila. You guessed it, Leila arrived early each morning just ahead of the real grandbaby for puppy daycare. In retrospect, I should have read The Art of the Deal before agreeing to half eaten couches, chewed infant toys, destroyed baseboard molding and uncontained puppy shit to compliment the somewhat contained baby shit.

One morning following a "This fooooooking scale lies like a bitch" breakdown, I declared power juicing the answer to my excessive 'sweeting' disorder.

Hesitant to fully commit to liquid food in consideration of my income reduction, I didn't want to pour a lot of dough into my purchase, in case juicing was a passing fluke. I tend to not stick with diets when Bruni starts bitching about craving sweets and carbs, and end up succumbing just to shut her up.  Once the flood gates are so much as cracked, I tend to go off the rails.

Brunhilda is high maintenance when it comes to chocolate, carbs and crunch. She insists our blood type is 0+sugardough with a trace of butter. The little snot just suggested we run to the store and pick up a crate of Oreo Thins to hasten the end of this story--I'm apparently taking too long.

Procurement for a reasonable juicer on Craig's List commenced as the baby napped and the bully snorted. The snorting was so cute, it netted a ten second video.

The ten second video ended up causing me what could have been a problematic, tricky-dicky, thorny situation. Brunhilda suggested if the 'T' was removed from thorny and Donald Trump was delivering the juicer, I might have had a "situation" that could not have been contained in any of Hillary's emails, top secret or otherwise.

Enter the Craigslist ad:

FOR SALE:  
Jack LaLanne Power Juicer Express
 Hardly Used  - $45
 Text to Allen:  602.934.XXXX

My curiosity peaked. I remembered Jack LaLanne from childhood; he was an exercise guru from the 1960's who pushed my mom and her coffee clutch friends to achieve their jumping jack quota each morning.

I watched, and sometimes joined my mom as she bounced and jumped in front of our 13" black and white television between sips of steaming coffee. Decades later, Jack was featured on a news program where at the ungodly age of geriatric, the man was still remarkably fit as a fiddle, swimming the frigid, shark infested waters surrounding Alcatraz while harnessed and pulling seventy boats laden with weights and fat people to shore. Each boat represented a year of his life.

Craigslist and Jack had my attention as I stared at a juicer branding his name for sale and within my budget of minimal.

I fantasized that with juicing, I could get Jack-fit in a week.  I was 'all in'.

To be clear, my protocol would not involve swimming in frigid waters among hungry large angry-eyed fish with pointy teeth.

I'd be happy fitting into my size 8's, and successfully execute fifteen jumping jacks without wetting myself, or dislocating a knee on the landing. I've never been one who felt the need to 'over do' with physical exertion and sweat.

Bruni sniped, "You're 'all in' until that first cookie magically appears, or date night at Costco's 'Sample Saturday.'  I wanted so badly to shove a carrot cookie down Brunhilda's throat to shut the little snot up.

ME: Is your juicer still available?
ALLEN: Yes.
ME: It works well?
ALLEN: Yes. Rarely used. Like brand new. (Brunhilda suspected Allen had a cookie imbibement problem, too)
BRUNI:  We'll give you $15.00 for it.
ME:  Will you take $40.00? (guess who just snickered "You suck at bartering").
ALLEN: Yes. What time do you want to come and get it?  
ALLEN:  Or I can bring it to you...I will be running errands all day. Where do you live?
ME: (over Bruni screaming "Don't give him our address, he could be a Ted Bundy serial killer!!") I live at 75th & Greenway. I'm babysitting grandbabies (plural indicates a force not to be reckoned with) until 4:00pm and I'm without a carseat. Perhaps we can meet somewhere in between, or I can head your direction after 4pm.
ALLEN:  I have no problem bringing it to you if you wish. I'm out already and have it with me. Are you at Avenue or Street?
ME:  Avenue
ALLEN:  Address?

About the time I was failing at the art of barter and considering the consequences that could arise with doling out my home address to a stranger, I received a text from a high school friend about our upcoming reunion, asking if I had committed to going, and if I was successful in persuading another mutual friend of ours to attend. 

Unfortunately, my fancy-pants phone has more horsepower and options than a Boeing 747. As I switched between the pulsing multiple screens, swipe, swipe, swipe, I tried to keep abreast of rapid fire juicer delivering, and rapid fire reunioning.  I was bound to fail under that kind of pressure.

(ME1 is my dialogue with ALLEN the juice guy; ME2 is my dialogue with my friend from high school; GD)

ME2:  "Hi, yes, bought tickets for both Roger and I, and no on getting 'Myra' to go...Looking forward to catching up and seeing everyone after all these years..." ME1:  "Sorry, my address is XXXXXX X XXXXXX XXXX.  I'm between XXXXX and XXXXXXXXXXX cross streets." (Brunhilda..."I'm fooooooking out of here, you just gave a potential killer or rapist our address!!!!")

ALLEN: "Okay, I'm on my way."

Then, with my intent to share the ten second video of my adorable snoring bulldog grandpuppy with my high school friend, I choked.