"Do you ever get tired of watching sports because you work in sports?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, were you a bigger sports fan before you got a job here?"

"Um. Kind of sucks the joy out of being a fan. I guess you could say that."

"You know Bikinis?"

"The bathing suit?"

"The sports bar. I used to bartend there. So I get it."

"You watched too much sports?"

"No, the chicks in bikini tops. They're in your face all day. And after a week, it's like, go ahead, put on a shirt. I don't even care."

I tend to get much more than lunch when I order sandwiches. Thank you, Jimmy John's delivery guy, for painting that profound parallel. (And for quartering my pickle spear without having to ask).

Also, someone found my blog in the most creative of ways...

Greece flag do rag?

Cincinnati body waxing? 

Welllllll... who am I to judge...

There's a desktop folder on my work computer called 'Sexy Cat Music' and my last Google search was 'Sherpa People.' I can explain one of those two things.

Today, I joined the ranks of the people I scoff at, the people whose sanity I question.

I laced up my fancy new running shoes... slammed half a Lara bar (carb-loading, yo)... and saddled up to a bike at the irreverent hour of five a.m.

"Who's ready to burn calories?"

I didn't raise either hand.

(Wiping away sleep boogs with the right one. Slapping my face to ensure consciousness with the left one).

Fast forward sixty sweat-drenched minutes... sipping on a hazelnut coffee before the sun decided to show its face, a ridiculous workout behind me... I have to admit, it felt good.

You know what didn't?

Putting on pants.

My quads? In fine shape. My epidermis, not so much.

^ Words to live by. Just not at the pool.

I'm an irresponsible sun bather. I'm the first to admit it. (Universal stank eye from the dermatologists). I know, I know. Worshipping in the rays with no regard to SPF for an entire afternoon doesn't get you lightly toasted. It gets you bitch slapped.

And now I'm wondering how me and my lobster-red gams are going to get ready for work. Because a hot shower and a scalding sunburn.... well, this certainly won't be pleasant.

     - The insular quality of koozies does not make them a suitable replacement for oven mitts. (Burn to prove it).

- Minor indiscretions are regularly dismissed in the presence of baked goods. ("Fifteen minutes late for the mee.... Are those coconut cupcakes?")

- The art of penmanship isn't dead in these technologically-riddled times. Nope. It's alive and well and screwing over my checking account.

"In our defense, your two does looks like a seven."

"Are you insinuating my handwriting sucks?"

It got chippy with the bank rep real fast.

- Given the choice between plasticware and chopsticks at the Asian takeout place, it's okay to sacrifice pride - and cultural authenticity - in favor of a fork. (You can Edward Scissorhands those tiny grains of brown rice all night long... I'm hungry, dammit).

And perhaps greatest of all....

- My dad... the man who scribbles out 'emails' on printer paper with a fine-tipped Sharpie marker... knows what Pinterest is.

Disposable facts & unconventional wisdom.

Bullet points & brevity.

My week in summation.

The reincarnation of 90s Northwestern grunge-punk shakes me out of bed.

Remember the band Everclear? They're playing a hundred yards from my balcony. Part of this Austin musical 10K something or other. I'm confused, too. It's all cacophony and heavy bass and a screaming fan base... of at least eighty. If I really wanted to jam to these guys, I'd rummage through that dusty stack of NOW CDs in the box labeled "middle school," buried in the back of my parent's garage.

Propelled by bad music and feelings of general sluggishness as I meander past the finish line on the way to grab coffee, I settle for the gym. Which is teeming with characters. That's the best thing about a new gym membership, I've decided. People watching.

Bald Guy rowing in loafers and cargo shorts. Not a chaffing care in the world. Manic Stationary Cyclist, death grip on the front page of the Wall Street Journal. Just a-burnin' calories and soaking up current events. Motor Mouth, exerting more energy on iPhone than treadmill. Full-on Makeup Face, preening in the mirror. Meathead, with an ass that rivals Nicki Minaj's, also preening in the mirror. The Rays/Sox game I'd planted myself in front of plays second fiddle to this deck of cards for three and a half miles. Couldn't even tell you the final score.

Offensive in my own right, I stop for groceries on the way home. Tomato-faced. Smelling like a dude. I've got no shame. And a good sweat gives way to sugar.... as it should.

These bars? They're what happens when cheesecake flirts with chocolate chip cookies...

And before you know it... they're getting physical on the couch.

{Recipe via My Baking Addiction}

Rise (search frantically for matching socks) and shine.

Two classes in.

I can barely raise my leg to the edge of the tub to shave.

I don't own fancy clip-in shoes. My hindquarters loathe me. And the silver-haired gentleman to my left (the one in the neon yellow racing jersey) smoked me from warmup to cool down.

Urges to punch the sadist instructor subsided by mile 10. Thoughts of perfectly toned legs outweighed the hoots, woots and hollers emitted by the more enthusiastic cyclists. And the music could use an upgrade. (Kid Rock? I'm cringing).

Aspirations are lofty.... but I might befriend this spinning thing.

(That's the endorphins speaking).

I pump the brakes and pull a U-turn on an empty stretch of two-lane highway just outside of Early. (The town. Not the time of day, although it was).

"I just want to lay in the middle of them," she says, springing out of the passenger side before I've barely put it into park.

The seductress? A perfect patch of bluebonnets. The state flower, for all you non-Texans, whose purple plumes make springtime ripe for roadside photo-ops.

Hence the botanical pit stop... an arm's length away from becoming a trip to the emergency room, no thanks to a covert cactus. Check before you frolic, kids.

Another hallmark of all things March, April and May? Baby animals. And if we weren't passing up wildflowers, you know we weren't passing up wildlife. Locals rattling by in pickup trucks gawk at the two strangers snapping pictures in the front yard of an old ranch house.

Fingers crossed they're family pets. Not tomorrow's dinner. More than I can say for the four-legged residents of Goldthwaite, where a giant "GOAT COOK-OFF" banner hangs from the lone stoplight in the middle of town.

Competition in the form of cornhole awaits our arrival. I've barely hugged hello before I've got a beanbag in each hand. (This is my family).

"Brookie, next game?"

Despite a rusty arm, Dad snags me for his team. Call it beginner's luck if you please, but I'll be damned if we didn't win out. (Fortune fled later that night during a hot round of El Diablo, where cards flew and Mamasita doled out conspicuous aid, despite shrieks of "BUT THAT'S CHEATING.")

Please note the handsome menfolk in my life... paying rapt attention to the one sport that lulls me to sleep, green jacket or not. I'm especially smitten with the one in the bib. And I'd be remiss to ignore the similarity between my little brother's bicep and a tree trunk. He is selling tickets to the gun show, ladies. (I take but a small, promotional cut).

Sunday morning at its finest, fishing pole in hand. The definition of serenity, until I feel a tug on the line.

"I GOT ONE," I scream, jerking the rod.

"REEL IT IN," my cousins chirp, dashing to the edge of the dock.

I reel. I yank. I reel harder.

"This fish must be HUGE."

"You got it stuck, idiot." My brother's astute assessment. Sadly, he's not wrong. I'll spare you the resurrection jokes, but the effort to save the two-dollar lure went a little something like this...

For some magical reason, my mom still finds it highly appropriate to fashion Easter baskets for the two of us. We oblige. Obviously. (I've got a six-pack of blue Peeps, if anyone wants to trade for Reese's Eggs).

The weekend capper? A feast I can only liken to.... um, every other holiday we spend together. (The Millers/Shugarts excel at eating. Fun fact). Highlighted by my dear Meme trying to sneak dabs of both buttery mashed potatoes and green frosting into the mouth of her sixth-month old great-grandson. ("What? He was crying for cake!") If that doesn't tell you grandmothers are hard-wired to spoil.

Easter goes as quick as it comes. We hug goodbyes, lamenting the food babies and the long trip home. And instead of leaving with the Golden Egg... I bounce with gas money, which is pretty much the same thing these days.

My Friday morning? Less than stellar. I blame it on The Linda. That sassy broad had my head spinning.

Got your notepad ready? Here's some important math... Hydration plus ibuprofen does not equal recuperation. But vanity got the best of me, and I mustered enough giddy-up to make my noon hair appointment. Like a champ. (A spectacularly hungover champ).

Four hours later, I left without five inches of hair. And a questionable color job. ("Brighten it up for summer" didn't translate from photo to follicle like I'd hoped). But it's hair. Hair. I fired off a few precautionary "I might look like a Swedish hooker" texts and decided to shrug it off and embrace the towheaded mane a la Kate B. (Can we all just agree that Blue Crush is still her best work?)

Then, trekked down Mopac during rush hour to meet one of my favorite friends at Abel's.

"I'm not drinking at all though," I said.

"Hair of the dog," she said.

Turns out I didn't have to choose. Battling lake-goers and driving in circles in search of parking drained me of happy hour joy.

"Excuse me, ma'am..."

What is this joker doing, waving his hands at me? Pointing out a spot?

"Ma'am, you can't park here. Reserved for vehicles with boat trailers only. Unless you want a ticket."

"NO I DO NOT WANT A TICKET," I yelled, window still rolled down. "I GIVE UP."

I peeled out of the gravelly lot (theatrics) and settled for a quiet night on the couch. I'm talking Crest White Strips and New York Times' Modern Love. (They're so good. The stories, not the Strips). Making the rest of my Friday as salacious as, well, a saltine cracker.

All I want to know is.... WHERE IS BETTY DRAPER FRANCIS?

If she doesn't make a return tonight, I'll be forced to watch women's basketball. And if lady hoops don't thrill you... Kim Mulkey's outfits certainly will. (Somebody, assemble a photographic montage of awesomeness. Get on that. For the love).

Spent the better part of my day in a production truck. Texas Spring Game. Er, Showcase. (Because a game in which you cannot potentially sack the living ish out of the quarterback is not a game at all).

And I like to kick... streeeeetch... and kick.

Had every intention of signing up for barre classes and a gym membership on the way home, but the place "closed" at five. Thirty seven minutes tardy for that party. I mourned with peanut butter pretzels and half a jar of jalapeños. I mean, dinner. And then poured myself a glass of Malbec to avoid face-planting into the leftover bowl of Nutella Cloud Frosting. I have so much self control. So. Much.

Floaties, anyone? I think I'll just swim around for a bit.

On top of that, can I just confess that I'm a gullible sucker who believes my friend is knocked up and my brother is kicked out of college ALL ON THE SAME DAY? Here I am trying to juggle life-altering text messages while building full screens for our pre-game show, wondering for a solid ten minutes how such bizarre things are happening to everyone I love..... Oh. Ohhhhh. (Lightbulb). April Fools, fool.