have incompatible operating systems. Yesterday, the technologically-challenged Matron discovered that an hour at Life Time Fitness requires more than sole to ground. There are machines. To operate. See the stair machine above?
She fell off of it.
Because she set the speed insanely high and couldn't get it to stop.
Now, that endeared her to the staff, who made haste regarding law suit (don't!) and setting up the sad middle-aged woman on a safer, flatter, plane. But nobody showed her how to work the darn thing, so she spent her entire 45 minutes on this
trying to get the elaborate dashboard to tell her how many calories she'd burned OR what her heart-rate rose to. At least she didn't fall off.
But then, there's this.
Friends, this machine felled her before she even turned it on. Indeed, the oven has the ability to render the Matron a hopeless fool in its presence. There are some kind of brain implants sent through the airwaves, she's certain.
Because her husband is a realtor (no need to send $, yet, but talk to her in February), she is baking cookies instead of buying gifts for friends and neighbors. The only glitch to this highly rational plan is that whatever she puts into an oven is magically baked into an inedible item.
Decorating the cookies?
John said: "Are you sure? Remember how you ended up throwing three dozen botched reindeers out the back door five years ago?"
Wise man, although she will deny that.
So she settled on two cookies, impossible to ruin. No decorating.
No fuss. Just bake and shove chocolate in the middle.
She was all fine and go with the flow after scorching the bottom of the first batch of pretzel m & m's. Who doesn't forget they just put fifty pretzels in the oven?
But when the peanut butter-kiss cookies turned up, post-oven (BAD machine!), all soggy and muck -- unable to host the Hershey Kiss, even -- the Matron was ready to throw in the towel.
Turns out she forgot the two cups of brown sugar.
Damn that oven! It's under Satan's Familiar's s, spell, she's certain. Two ruined batches of two different recipes under belt and only six more to go. . . . .maybe she'll fall off the oven.