Oh damn, is it Wednesday already?

It's been like that around here lately. You know how holidays on Mondays just throw you off for the rest of the week? Well, this Labor Day holiday on Monday was no exception. Except the part about Ron ironically and symbolically telling his boss to take-his-job-and-shove it, but that's another story.

It's a simple enough storyline though: When you make more money on eBay selling old yearbooks with once-localgirl Cybill Shepherd's 8th-grade picture in them than you do sorting through a box full of water-stained Sal Mineo albums day in, day out for some overgrown biting elfen man who may or may not have just purchased a gaggle of baby roaches living in an old army Victrola, well then, you stay home and sell old yearbooks with Cybill Shepherd in them.

Honestly, I am amazed at the things Ron knows and sells on eBay. Yes, the double-major in history and geography helps. Me, I just go for the shiny objects. Ron is like watching the Antiques Roadshow program on public television. He not only knows historically when something was produced, where it existed and why, but he does so in a market or region where that type of thinking and research is oftentimes overlooked first. And luckily, he runs across some of the coolest crapola because of that. I should know. Most of it is waiting quietly in the shrinking garage as we speak.

Requests welcome since he loves to find stuff, and check back often. If you're in the eBay neighborhood, search by eBay seller ronforsale. You honestly never know what you will find. Right now, he has enough Boy Scout memorabilia to make a grown Eagle Scout tingle. Make someone's Christmas holiday a greener shade of pale this year (read: Ron's), especially since Christmas falls on a Tuesday this year.

By the way: Good ole Thanksgiving. The holiday that gets absolutely no credit. But I love it. Always on a Thursday, year in year out. I didn't really think about that until I heard Leshondra talking about it in the Circle K convenience store one day. As she scratched an itchy part between her braids with long, plastic, fuschia nails, she mused factually to her co-worker, "I do hope Thanksgiving falls on a weekend this year. I don't get no weekdays off." Ah, the hopeful bliss of being truly unencumbered with facts and details. Gimme some.

My point: Anyway, so Ron quit his dayjob. Good. No, really. I needed to lose a few pounds anyway. So I joined a fitness club. Do they still call them that? Wait, no it's a Health & Fitness club, to be exact.

Things certainly have changed since I the last time I was in a gym. Number one, they don't call them gyms anymore. And number two, I'd like to stop and thank God that no one seriously wears tight, neon pink-and-blue Lycra floralprint and headbands anymore. All I saw was a sea of sensible white t-shirts, and more than one person with big, gray baggy shorts. Thank you. Like a carwash with gray dancing curtains swishing side-to-side.

Or maybe I was hallucinating. You know how it is when your body purges toxins and overdoses on endorphins at once. I don't care what anyone says, storing red wine in places your body doesn't use until a workout equals money and time well-spent.

Love it. But I am going to spin-class tonight. So you know what that means: It's a toss-up between blowing a kneecap and my first mini-stoke. Which will it be? The suspense is killing me. Or it could just be the tumor.

Ta.