The evening of Wednesday, June 15, 2011 was shaping up to be, in one word, unremarkable. I returned home from a run in the sweltering June heat with the intention of eating 6-10 Otter Pops to help regulate my core temperature, and was looking forward to catching up on some stimulating, educational television (READ: Modern Family and Next Food Network Star). What a nice, quiet evening at home, I thought, as I wiggled out of my sweaty t-shirt and snipped the top off of a Louie-Bloo Raspberry. I took the commercial break following a particularly cutthroat kitchen challenge to step onto the balcony to water my flower pot, and that’s when my quiet evening at home turned into an urban rendition of 127 Hours.
I was so busy telling my flowers how proud I was of them for (finally) growing and flourishing that I didn’t hear the door click shut behind me. I turned to go back inside, anxious to watch the judging panel reduce the emotionally-unstable blonde chef to a blubbering ball of tears, and that’s when I realized that I had been locked out. Relax, I thought. I’ll go in through the bedroom, fully aware that I keep my bedroom door locked at all times to ward off predators. Both doors leading back inside were LOCKED. And that’s when it sank in that I was in my jog bra, trapped seven stories up, on a balcony roughly the size of baby’s playpen.
My first reaction was to laugh at myself, quietly at first and then heartily. I truly am Amelia Bedelia in the flesh! Wait’ll the girls get a load of this! It was only when I stopped laughing to seriously consider how I was going to get back inside that the severity of the situation settled in. Following is my exact train of thought:
“Oh, I’ll just call someone”. (Phone was inside.)
“Okkk, I’ll just wait for Michelle to get home and let me in.” (Michelle was obliviously crooning away at Mumford & Sons, and wouldn’t be home until morning.)
“Ugh, I didn’t want to have to do this, but I’ll just pop over to the neighbor’s balcony and tap tap tap on his door.” (Pretty certain the neighbor uses his condo as a second home and likely wouldn’t be returning for months.)
“Fuck it, I’ll just break the glass and let myself in.” (With what, you idiot, your bare hands? Did you wanna wrap them in your jog bra first? You’ll surely bleed to death on your own balcony. Not an ideal way to go.)
At this point, panic rose in my throat like an unstoppable rebel force. I AM TOAST!!! But wait – hadn’t I watched enough Man vs. Wild to get me through this? It’s not like I was in the Sahara; I was on my own, lovely patio! THINK, DAMNIT. But it kind of felt like the Sahara – that unforgiving summer sun beating down mercilessly on my scantily-clad bod. God it’s hot. A nice shower from my watering can would sure be a good morale booster; I cursed myself for having wasted all the water on my plants. I hope you’re happy, you good for nothing – NO. Don’t turn on them. They’re all you’ve got and you may end up having to eat them soon. I paced frantically between the two doors, violently shaking the handles. I was struck by the irony of hoping that one of the locks I had grown to rely on might be faulty. And then there was the momentary consideration of launching myself onto the patio below, but I knew that was just the heat talking, and I sat down on my chair to compose myself.
As the sun began to set over the Rocky Mountains to the west, it got very quiet, and a sense of peaceful helplessness replaced the frenzied terror I had been choking on. I slumped over the railing, watching cars drive by in the distance, thinking how beautiful the city looks at that time of night, vaguely aware of the occasional gun shot in the bail bond district a couple blocks away. Sleeping out here wouldn’t so bad, I thought, pondering the absurdity of doing so while staring at my bed 3 feet away on the other side of the door.
I heard them before I saw them: VOICES, and not just the ones in my head for once. Real voices! And then, like a mirage they appeared – three bikers riding down the street towards my building. I stood up, wobbly on my feet, and cried down like a modern-day Rapunzel.
“HELLOOOOO! UP HEEEERE! I’M LOCKED OUT OF MY CONDO, PLEASE HELP!!!”
They blinked at each other, baffled, and then looked up at me again.
“WHAT SHOULD WE DO?” they yelled back.
“GO TELL DOUG IN THE LOBBY THAT HE NEEDS TO COME UP AND UNLOCK MY DOOR! AND STEP ON IT!”
I used the last bit of my strength to yell my apartment number to them and then slumped back into my chair, exhausted. The next five minutes were excruciating, and I was convinced that the bikers had dismissed me as a crazy person and ridden into the sunset. But then Doug – sweet, adorable, helpful Doug – appeared inside and turned the door handle to let me in. I doubt he’s ever been so amused in his life. And the bikers were there too – my heroes! They had come up to enjoy the spectacle. I thanked them all profusely, painfully aware of my lack of clothing and the melted Otter Pops on the table. Soon all 5 of us were in stitches, and I was sad when they turned to go. “You are a fine group of people”, I said, as I locked the door behind them.
I’m not sure Bear Grylls would have been super proud of my performance on the balcony, and I don’t think I’ll be getting a call from the producers of I Shouldn’t Be Alive anytime soon. But an hour of looking in on my life from the outside was enough to be a bit of a perspective changer. And that Louie-Bloo never tasted so sweet.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
Lakewood Vacation
If you’d ever like to see a very real and horribly raw cross-section of humanity, head to the lazy river at Elitches, or better yet – an insurance licensing class. I was fortunate enough to have a two-day vacation last week in scenic Lakewood, CO completing some pre-licensing education for my Property & Casualty designation. After a wild goose chase that led me onto virtually every highway in the state, courtesy of MapQuest, I arrived at my destination with just enough time to spare for a watered-down gas station coffee and $52 fill-up.
Imagine my surprise to find Courtney (having arrived early) with her notepad already out, sitting in the front row, wearing the exact same outfit as me. She was a real doll to save me a middle seat, which I had to twist and contort my body to get into in the interest of not spilling my overweight neighbor’s Venti Carmel Frappucino all over her ample bosom.
The morning started off nicely – I was learning things and taking copious notes with a really neat pen. I couldn’t help but notice that the gal directly in front of me loved snacking; the sound of the spoon meticulously scraping the sides of the Activia carton (ACTIVIAAAA!) was a bit distracting, but no matter; my penmanship was exquisite and my twin and I were quickly becoming the teacher’s pets.
Then something disturbing happened on our first break. We had 10 minutes to make phone calls, stretch, and/or use the facilities. Like a herd of wild wildebeest, the women in the class flocked to the bathroom adjacent to the classroom, forming a line that snaked into the hallway. LET ME BE CLEAR: There is no anticipation more excruciating than waiting to see who comes out of the bathroom stall you are about to enter, and there is nothing more distressing than the previous occupant telling you in an apologetic and panicked voice that “it’s not flushing”. Choking back tears, I wiped the seat down and vowed never to put myself through this again, and subsequently climbed the stairs to the fourth floor on every other restroom break. Why more people in the class didn’t use bathrooms on other floors is beyond me and is likely indicative of the passing rate on the exam.
The staleness of the classroom grew exponentially with each passing hour, and it was indescribably refreshing when the teacher opened the window, even with a group of tweens chain-smoking directly outside. The man in front of me had a tattoo on his head, and against my will, I began to fixate on it. What an odd place for a tattoo, I thought. The Snacker produced – you guessed it – more snacks; a Tupperware full of strawberries, a baggie of chips, a string cheese. Her snacking began to weigh on me, and my hand was getting tired; I was fading – fast. Thankfully, lunch arrived as I was on the verge of blacking out. Court and I peeled out of the parking lot, desperate for an hour away from the herd. Despite the fact that it was sleeting slightly, we picked a table on the patio at Chipotle and ate in silence, savoring the quiet and fresh air. In unison, our eyes met and we knew it was time to get back.
Upon return, we discovered that the office next to our classroom belonged to a woman named Carol Poos-Wilson, which begs the question: If your last name was Poos, and you got married and had the opportunity to drop the name, wouldn’t you? Or would you hyphenate it? This was hilarious to us, and we laughed. Then we remembered that we were in Lakewood for insurance licensing, and the laughter ceased.
The afternoon went much like the morning, and the second day went very much like the first – a blur of notes, second-hand smoke, snacks. I begged my sweet sister to give me the aisle seat for a couple of hours, and derived some sick pleasure out of watching her repeatedly bump elbows with Frapuccino Face. There was some police activity in the parking lot, which was briefly exciting for a couple gals from Greenwood Village. We made the amateur mistake of bringing a bag of Jolly Ranchers back from lunch – a very noisy candy to unwrap – and this sent the snacker into a frenzy. She asked if she could have one and proceeded to pick out all the cherries. The nerve! Did it ever occur to her that I might like a strawberry, or a peel of her string cheese? Nooo, she didn’t want to share, but she had no problem pilfering all of the cherries, which happen to be my favorite. I had two choices: Scream very, very loudly or bury my nose in the books and ace every in-class exam. I chose the second, because I am a lady, and the rest of the course was punctuated with high scores and high-fives.
We emerged at 5:00 on Day 2 with full minds and a newfound appreciation for the world outside of those suffocating classroom walls. Although my pursuit for bathroom cleanliness left me feeling like I had been on a Stairmaster from hell, I decided to run around Wash Park to center myself and reflect on my Lakewood vacation. The strangest thing happened: I began to miss The Snacker and the man with the weird head tattoo; I mean I spent two full days with these people, and now what – I’m just never going to see them again? Not to mention they just don’t make coffee like that in the Tech Center. Lakewood doesn’t get enough cred, I thought. Ah, well… another chapter closed in the life of an insurance slanger.
The next morning, we passed all four of the P&C exams with flying colors, leaving me with two questions: Would you have any objection to me reviewing your auto insurance, and what the F is Carol-Poos Wilson up to these days?
Imagine my surprise to find Courtney (having arrived early) with her notepad already out, sitting in the front row, wearing the exact same outfit as me. She was a real doll to save me a middle seat, which I had to twist and contort my body to get into in the interest of not spilling my overweight neighbor’s Venti Carmel Frappucino all over her ample bosom.
The morning started off nicely – I was learning things and taking copious notes with a really neat pen. I couldn’t help but notice that the gal directly in front of me loved snacking; the sound of the spoon meticulously scraping the sides of the Activia carton (ACTIVIAAAA!) was a bit distracting, but no matter; my penmanship was exquisite and my twin and I were quickly becoming the teacher’s pets.
Then something disturbing happened on our first break. We had 10 minutes to make phone calls, stretch, and/or use the facilities. Like a herd of wild wildebeest, the women in the class flocked to the bathroom adjacent to the classroom, forming a line that snaked into the hallway. LET ME BE CLEAR: There is no anticipation more excruciating than waiting to see who comes out of the bathroom stall you are about to enter, and there is nothing more distressing than the previous occupant telling you in an apologetic and panicked voice that “it’s not flushing”. Choking back tears, I wiped the seat down and vowed never to put myself through this again, and subsequently climbed the stairs to the fourth floor on every other restroom break. Why more people in the class didn’t use bathrooms on other floors is beyond me and is likely indicative of the passing rate on the exam.
The staleness of the classroom grew exponentially with each passing hour, and it was indescribably refreshing when the teacher opened the window, even with a group of tweens chain-smoking directly outside. The man in front of me had a tattoo on his head, and against my will, I began to fixate on it. What an odd place for a tattoo, I thought. The Snacker produced – you guessed it – more snacks; a Tupperware full of strawberries, a baggie of chips, a string cheese. Her snacking began to weigh on me, and my hand was getting tired; I was fading – fast. Thankfully, lunch arrived as I was on the verge of blacking out. Court and I peeled out of the parking lot, desperate for an hour away from the herd. Despite the fact that it was sleeting slightly, we picked a table on the patio at Chipotle and ate in silence, savoring the quiet and fresh air. In unison, our eyes met and we knew it was time to get back.
Upon return, we discovered that the office next to our classroom belonged to a woman named Carol Poos-Wilson, which begs the question: If your last name was Poos, and you got married and had the opportunity to drop the name, wouldn’t you? Or would you hyphenate it? This was hilarious to us, and we laughed. Then we remembered that we were in Lakewood for insurance licensing, and the laughter ceased.
The afternoon went much like the morning, and the second day went very much like the first – a blur of notes, second-hand smoke, snacks. I begged my sweet sister to give me the aisle seat for a couple of hours, and derived some sick pleasure out of watching her repeatedly bump elbows with Frapuccino Face. There was some police activity in the parking lot, which was briefly exciting for a couple gals from Greenwood Village. We made the amateur mistake of bringing a bag of Jolly Ranchers back from lunch – a very noisy candy to unwrap – and this sent the snacker into a frenzy. She asked if she could have one and proceeded to pick out all the cherries. The nerve! Did it ever occur to her that I might like a strawberry, or a peel of her string cheese? Nooo, she didn’t want to share, but she had no problem pilfering all of the cherries, which happen to be my favorite. I had two choices: Scream very, very loudly or bury my nose in the books and ace every in-class exam. I chose the second, because I am a lady, and the rest of the course was punctuated with high scores and high-fives.
We emerged at 5:00 on Day 2 with full minds and a newfound appreciation for the world outside of those suffocating classroom walls. Although my pursuit for bathroom cleanliness left me feeling like I had been on a Stairmaster from hell, I decided to run around Wash Park to center myself and reflect on my Lakewood vacation. The strangest thing happened: I began to miss The Snacker and the man with the weird head tattoo; I mean I spent two full days with these people, and now what – I’m just never going to see them again? Not to mention they just don’t make coffee like that in the Tech Center. Lakewood doesn’t get enough cred, I thought. Ah, well… another chapter closed in the life of an insurance slanger.
The next morning, we passed all four of the P&C exams with flying colors, leaving me with two questions: Would you have any objection to me reviewing your auto insurance, and what the F is Carol-Poos Wilson up to these days?
Monday, February 7, 2011
"Working From Home"
10AM on a Monday morning: I lay on the couch sneezing uncontrollably, wearing my Norwegian sweater and ski socks for warmth, sniveling like a pathetic little ball of germs. I can’t cough without imagining the Mucinex family being dislodged from my lungs in a hurricane-like blast. How did I get here? Wasn’t I healthy as a horse just a few days ago? Let us revisit my journey down the head cold highway.
It started as an innocent little tickle in the back of my throat, which I attributed to the dry Colorado air and the second-hand smoke courtesy of the hipsters outside of Red Square. I dismissed the scratchy throat as just that, and went about living my life. Let the records show that I RARELY fall ill. In fact, I am somewhat judgmental of people that are constantly sniffling; their parents obviously protected them from germs with OCD vigor when they were children, ironically gifting them with the immune system of a premature panda cub. Do parents not realize that exposure to germs eventually renders children immune to disease? When I have babies, I am going to let them roll around on the floor and encourage them to eat fistfuls of dirt. Alas, I digress.
The tickle in my throat quickly escalated into a full-fledged, diabolical head cold. Coughing, sneezing… the works. For someone that rarely falls ill, the first day or two of a sickness are somewhat of a novelty: Drinking tea, lounging around watching movies, eating chicken noodle soup and milk shakes with a great deal of self-indulgence. Poor me, poor me, so sick. Ideally, you have a miraculous recovery after two days of milkshake binging and that's the extent of it. This time around, I was not so lucky. This is DAY FOUR of couch lounging. I am tired of soup. I am sick of watching TV. If I see one more Proactiv commercial, I might roll off the couch onto a bed of used Kleenex and adult sob. I was actually excited to go to work this morning – I awoke from a Nyquil-fueled slumber and convinced myself I felt sooo much better. I was at work for less than an hour when I sneezed directly on a co-worker while making coffee in the communal kitchen, prompting a look of true disdain. Everyone agreed that I should go home and “take it easy” (code for “get the F out of here before you get us sick, you selfish, sniveling brat"). I agreed, promising that I would be working from home, and just like that I was banished back to the couch. Blah.
Let me just say that the idea of “working from home” is preposterous. Let’s call a spade a spade: Working from home is sending one e-mail per hour while eating Bagel Bites and sinking into a Food Network trance. It’s always funny to hear people justify the concept. “I have a fully-functional office at home. You won’t even know I’m working remotely!” Yea right, and Kim Kardashian really got that ass wearing Shape-Ups. You might as well just say, "I've decided I'm done working for the day. I think I'll go home and blatantly disregard my professional obligations until tomorrow." At least that would be honest.
I know what you’re thinking: I’m over exerting myself with all of this profound, meaningful writing. If I stand a chance of getting off this god-forsaken couch anytime soon, I’d better heed my coworkers’ advice and take it easy. I think I’ll take a nap and then do some work. Cough cough.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Erotic Pat-Downs: I'll Opt-Out of Opting-Out
With all of this hullabaloo (noun: an uproar or fuss) going on about holiday travel, I thought I’d climb on to my proverbial soap box and give my proverbial 2¢. Maybe it’s because I don’t have to travel for the holidays, but I don’t understand why people hate going to the airport / being groped at the airport so much; so someone wants to give your inner thighs a rubdown - enjoy it and give thanks! When did people get so protective of their "junk", anyways? Prude, prude, prude. I personally love airports, and to some people that makes me an odd bird. If only they understood my airport routine, they’d think I was a pretty cool... bird.
STEPHANY POBRISLO’S AIRPORT ROUTINE:
• Arrive at DIA > 2 hours early (3 for international flights)
• Arrive at gate in approximately 19 minutes
• Read novel for 7 minutes
• Get grossed out by someone sleeping at gate
• Seek airport bar
• Order wine
• Watch obscure football game that has no relevance to my life
• Order more wine
• Establish relationship with airport bar cronies
• Witness two disheveled parents, with 4 ginger babies in tow, walk up to bar and order Jaeger shots, throw them back, and miserably exit bar
• Laugh with airport bar cronies at disheveled parents’ expense, savor taste of having inside joke with new friends
• Bid airport bar cronies adieu; feel overwhelming sadness for fleeting friendship
• Arrive back at gate to take part in degrading, counter-intuitive boarding procedure that is Southwest Airlines
Southwest’s boarding system truly is a whole different animal (to borrow a slogan from their wittier, superior competitor). It’s basically a Caste System in a contemporary setting, and your position in society boils down to your check-in performance 24 hours before flight time.
The elite A Group is reserved for the upper echelon of society; those with poor time-management skills and/or dislike for basic human rights need not apply. The A-Groupers are undoubtedly arriving at the airport an hour early today to participate in the protests; they opt-out of fondling, and they opt-out of fun. They’re the people with their liquids in baggies before they leave for the airport; the type that pack a nice turkey on whole wheat for the airport because they’d rather starve than eat at McDonald’s with the rest of the bourgeoisie. They are uptight, self-righteous aristocrats that enjoy nice aisle seats near the front of the plane while still maintaining comfortable distance from the lavatories. You hate them, unless you are one, in which case you hate everyone else.
But what if, you ask, you’re packing your bags the night before your trip, applying the lyrics from TSwift’s newest album to your current love life, and you realize that you forgot to check in for your flight? You had the best intentions, but quite frankly, “Back to December” is just so goddamn relevant that you spaced. Are you doomed? Should you just cancel your flight and adult-sob in bed all weekend watching a Teen Mom marathon? The answer is, no. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve definitely screwed up, and you will pay to some extent, but chances are, you’ll still get into the average, mundane B Group. B-Groupers are, in a word, unremarkable; they’re simple folk, who enjoy life’s little pleasures, like reclining their seats or treating themselves to a complimentary soft drink because their diets don’t allow them to Do the Dew very often, but heck! they're on vacation! There’s nothing particularly bad to say about the B Group, but then again, there’s nothing great to say about them either. They sound depressing, but I haven’t even begun to describe the C Group yet.
Glance towards the back of the plane and you’ll see a lot of flannel PJ bottoms and tear-away Adidas pants. You’ll smell weird smells that are reminiscent of day 4 on that godforsaken Carnival cruise. You might catch a glimpse of Ke$ha. You’d be willing to stand in line at the bathroom at the front of the plane for 20 minutes, pretending to “stretch your legs”, just to avoid going to the bathroom back there, with those people. The back of the plane is like Family Dollar on Black Friday– you don't go if you don't have to. Look, I know you’ve probably been in the C Group before, but I’d be willing to bet an $11 glass of airport Chardonnay that it was a mistake you vowed never to repeat.
The bottom line is, travel is supposed to be FUN - don't let a little unsolicited fondling ruin your day. Have some dranks, listen to some TSwift tunes and throw Skittles at the gate sleepers (what?). Do I smell hot dog salad coming from the back of the plane? Feels like a good time to stretch my legs....
STEPHANY POBRISLO’S AIRPORT ROUTINE:
• Arrive at DIA > 2 hours early (3 for international flights)
• Arrive at gate in approximately 19 minutes
• Read novel for 7 minutes
• Get grossed out by someone sleeping at gate
• Seek airport bar
• Order wine
• Watch obscure football game that has no relevance to my life
• Order more wine
• Establish relationship with airport bar cronies
• Witness two disheveled parents, with 4 ginger babies in tow, walk up to bar and order Jaeger shots, throw them back, and miserably exit bar
• Laugh with airport bar cronies at disheveled parents’ expense, savor taste of having inside joke with new friends
• Bid airport bar cronies adieu; feel overwhelming sadness for fleeting friendship
• Arrive back at gate to take part in degrading, counter-intuitive boarding procedure that is Southwest Airlines
Southwest’s boarding system truly is a whole different animal (to borrow a slogan from their wittier, superior competitor). It’s basically a Caste System in a contemporary setting, and your position in society boils down to your check-in performance 24 hours before flight time.
The elite A Group is reserved for the upper echelon of society; those with poor time-management skills and/or dislike for basic human rights need not apply. The A-Groupers are undoubtedly arriving at the airport an hour early today to participate in the protests; they opt-out of fondling, and they opt-out of fun. They’re the people with their liquids in baggies before they leave for the airport; the type that pack a nice turkey on whole wheat for the airport because they’d rather starve than eat at McDonald’s with the rest of the bourgeoisie. They are uptight, self-righteous aristocrats that enjoy nice aisle seats near the front of the plane while still maintaining comfortable distance from the lavatories. You hate them, unless you are one, in which case you hate everyone else.
But what if, you ask, you’re packing your bags the night before your trip, applying the lyrics from TSwift’s newest album to your current love life, and you realize that you forgot to check in for your flight? You had the best intentions, but quite frankly, “Back to December” is just so goddamn relevant that you spaced. Are you doomed? Should you just cancel your flight and adult-sob in bed all weekend watching a Teen Mom marathon? The answer is, no. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve definitely screwed up, and you will pay to some extent, but chances are, you’ll still get into the average, mundane B Group. B-Groupers are, in a word, unremarkable; they’re simple folk, who enjoy life’s little pleasures, like reclining their seats or treating themselves to a complimentary soft drink because their diets don’t allow them to Do the Dew very often, but heck! they're on vacation! There’s nothing particularly bad to say about the B Group, but then again, there’s nothing great to say about them either. They sound depressing, but I haven’t even begun to describe the C Group yet.
Glance towards the back of the plane and you’ll see a lot of flannel PJ bottoms and tear-away Adidas pants. You’ll smell weird smells that are reminiscent of day 4 on that godforsaken Carnival cruise. You might catch a glimpse of Ke$ha. You’d be willing to stand in line at the bathroom at the front of the plane for 20 minutes, pretending to “stretch your legs”, just to avoid going to the bathroom back there, with those people. The back of the plane is like Family Dollar on Black Friday– you don't go if you don't have to. Look, I know you’ve probably been in the C Group before, but I’d be willing to bet an $11 glass of airport Chardonnay that it was a mistake you vowed never to repeat.
The bottom line is, travel is supposed to be FUN - don't let a little unsolicited fondling ruin your day. Have some dranks, listen to some TSwift tunes and throw Skittles at the gate sleepers (what?). Do I smell hot dog salad coming from the back of the plane? Feels like a good time to stretch my legs....
Monday, September 13, 2010
Built-In Underwear
Ahh yes. The weather is getting colder and the days are getting short—just kidding. I’m not writing another weather-related blog. As much as I know you’re all dying for a flower pot update (deader than ever) and to hear more about what’s in store for the Crock-Pot this Winter (Meat Extravaganza 2010/2011), I’ve resolved to challenge myself creatively and write about something different.
In fact, challenging myself has been a recurring theme as of late, and not just to see how many Chardonnays I can order before happy hour ends or how many items I can buy for under $20 at TJ Maxx. Rather, said challenges are significant life-improvers. The most noteworthy challenge is detailed below.
A couple of weeks ago, in a fit of athletic ambition and self-confidence, I signed myself up for the Denver Rock ‘n Roll Half Marathon.
“13 miles”, I thought? “I ran 3 the other day and felt pretty good”.
• Don’t NOT eat before a run, or you might faint, which is way worse than prematurely throwing up.
• Road bikers are the enemy. With their “Holier than Thou” attitudes and stupid fire lens Oakleys, they will yell obscenities at you and try to make you feel like an inferior athlete; you’re not. There are lots and lots of fat bikers.
• The proverbial “runner’s high” exists only when drugs are consumed before the run begins. It’s my experience that the euphoric feeling doesn’t arrive until 10 minutes after the run is over and I’m starfishing on the carpet under the air conditioning vent.
• If a country song comes onto your iPod in the middle of the run, you have approximately 3.4 seconds to turn it off before the sad lyrics and overall depressing vibe infect your pace and ruin everything.
• Passing someone is really cool, but only if you can keep the pace up. A surefire way to make an arch nemesis on the trail is to pass them and then let them pass you back. If this happens, all bets are off and you’ll end up pulling your groin to keep up with a stranger whose athleticism you underestimated. If you can’t hang, don’t pass.
So with the big race day approaching next month, it’s time to tighten up those built-ins and turn up the techno. I’m also looking for someone to shuttle me from the finish line directly to a bar; let me know if anyone has a wheelbarrow. Road bikers need not apply unless you have a rickshaw attached, in which case I will pick the farthest bar away and enjoy the delicious irony of making you a runner’s slave. Who's inferior now?
In fact, challenging myself has been a recurring theme as of late, and not just to see how many Chardonnays I can order before happy hour ends or how many items I can buy for under $20 at TJ Maxx. Rather, said challenges are significant life-improvers. The most noteworthy challenge is detailed below.
A couple of weeks ago, in a fit of athletic ambition and self-confidence, I signed myself up for the Denver Rock ‘n Roll Half Marathon.
“13 miles”, I thought? “I ran 3 the other day and felt pretty good”.
And just like that, I paid my $92 registration fee with the same enthusiasm I have when I pay my Xcel bill. Not until the next day did I understand the magnitude of what I had done. 13 miles is 10 miles more than three, you hotshot. You ran cross country seven years ago in high school—big wow. But alas, the commemorative XS men’s t-shirt had been reserved, and I knew there was no turning back. The next logical move would have been to head straight to the park and run until I threw up to determine my athletic threshold. I chose instead to make a beeline for Sports Authority where I spent entirely too much money on name brand running wear. I figured if I was going to be pounding the pavement for the foreseeable future, I might as well look like a babe while doing it. Feeling pleased with my selections, I went home and pulled on a pair of my new shorts. That’s when I felt something that stopped me dead in my tracks: Built. In. Underwear. What’s up with that? Why does Nike feel so strongly about full-butt coverage that they literally sew underwear into their merchandise? As far as I’m concerned, Nike has no business underneath my Dri-FITS. No business at all.
Important lessons learned while training:
• Don’t eat too soon before a run, or you might throw up before you reach your threshold, which can be really confusing.
Important lessons learned while training:
• Don’t eat too soon before a run, or you might throw up before you reach your threshold, which can be really confusing.
• Don’t NOT eat before a run, or you might faint, which is way worse than prematurely throwing up.
• Road bikers are the enemy. With their “Holier than Thou” attitudes and stupid fire lens Oakleys, they will yell obscenities at you and try to make you feel like an inferior athlete; you’re not. There are lots and lots of fat bikers.
• The proverbial “runner’s high” exists only when drugs are consumed before the run begins. It’s my experience that the euphoric feeling doesn’t arrive until 10 minutes after the run is over and I’m starfishing on the carpet under the air conditioning vent.
• If a country song comes onto your iPod in the middle of the run, you have approximately 3.4 seconds to turn it off before the sad lyrics and overall depressing vibe infect your pace and ruin everything.
• Passing someone is really cool, but only if you can keep the pace up. A surefire way to make an arch nemesis on the trail is to pass them and then let them pass you back. If this happens, all bets are off and you’ll end up pulling your groin to keep up with a stranger whose athleticism you underestimated. If you can’t hang, don’t pass.
So with the big race day approaching next month, it’s time to tighten up those built-ins and turn up the techno. I’m also looking for someone to shuttle me from the finish line directly to a bar; let me know if anyone has a wheelbarrow. Road bikers need not apply unless you have a rickshaw attached, in which case I will pick the farthest bar away and enjoy the delicious irony of making you a runner’s slave. Who's inferior now?
Friday, July 16, 2010
Heat Wave
Heat wave. Day 4.
Denver has been hotter than Hades. (Contrary to prior belief, the saying isn’t “Hotter than Haiti”, which accidentally slipped out after the earthquake and prompted looks of disgust from everyone around me. “Too soon”, they said.) Suffice it to say that it’s hotter than two cats fighting in a wool sock—that seems pretty safe.
It’s tough to get jazzed about the day when there’s a story on the morning news about “heat safety” and how to avoid heat exhaustion. The normally upbeat weatherwoman appears lethargic, scared. Well, Kathy Sabine, you don’t have to warn me twice—once I got heat exhaustion at basketball camp and then ate a spoiled Lunchable that had been sitting in the sun all day, so I simultaneously had heat stroke and food poisoning. You better believe I learned something about heat safety that day. And a 4-foot-tall little girl has no business being at basketball camp to begin with.
My flowers are dead again, in case you were wondering. The pot on my balcony is officially a place where beautiful flowers go to die. It is so depressing. I often whisper “I’m sorry” before leaving for work, but it doesn’t feel like enough, especially because the pots on the balcony below are abounding with healthy petunias. (I get it, 6E, gardening is your thing. You’re a green thumb.) My mom, always the optimist, suggested that we plant a nice “hearty house plant” in the pot, but I don’t have the stomach. I simply cannot kill again.
Sometimes, on my lunch break, I go and lay out on my parents deck because it is close to the office, and I refuse to allow something silly like a job prevent me from getting an irresistible sun-kissed glow. This was a delightful summer routine in June. Recently though, I feel lucky to make it out of those lunch hours alive. I oil up and read my book and convince myself that “this is the life”, but then sweat drips into my eyes and bugs get stuck in the oil and all I want is to be back at my desk crunching numbers.
I have what feels like a life-or-death struggle every day after work because my black car with black leather seats feels more like a Cherokee sweat lodge than a fuel-efficient Jetta. I try to prepare by wearing a power skirt that can be hiked up in the car, but the seats burn my legs and I whimper for the first 5 minutes of my commute home. No! Don’t tell me—yes, another chap stick has melted into the cap. By this point, I’m parched beyond belief, but the only water bottle in sight has been boiling in the car all day, and taking a sip would surely kill me. The AC takes forever to get cold, and hot air blows on me like an unforgiving Sahara wind. Now I’m in survival mode. I put the Jetta in sport, lay on the accelerator and avoid the I-25 like the plague. An icy Perrier and a cold compress await me at home, and this keeps me forging ahead.
Not to mention what this heat wave is doing to my workout routine. A run in the park? I’ll faint. Hot yoga? Get real. Expending any extra energy in this environment can’t be healthy anyways, especially because I drink one cup of coffee in the morning and am automatically dehydrated for the remainder of the day. All I want to do after work is eat snow cones in my underwear while a hot ass spritzes me with Evian upon demand. Is that so much to ask?
I know what some of you are thinking: “Add some humidity and then you’ll know what hot is!!!” or “Spend a summer in Louisiana and then we’ll talk, honey!!!” To that I say, shut up. This isn’t a competition; this is man vs. wild, and last time I checked, we’re all humans. Now, be a doll and fetch me a Zima—it’s gonna be another scorcher.
Denver has been hotter than Hades. (Contrary to prior belief, the saying isn’t “Hotter than Haiti”, which accidentally slipped out after the earthquake and prompted looks of disgust from everyone around me. “Too soon”, they said.) Suffice it to say that it’s hotter than two cats fighting in a wool sock—that seems pretty safe.
It’s tough to get jazzed about the day when there’s a story on the morning news about “heat safety” and how to avoid heat exhaustion. The normally upbeat weatherwoman appears lethargic, scared. Well, Kathy Sabine, you don’t have to warn me twice—once I got heat exhaustion at basketball camp and then ate a spoiled Lunchable that had been sitting in the sun all day, so I simultaneously had heat stroke and food poisoning. You better believe I learned something about heat safety that day. And a 4-foot-tall little girl has no business being at basketball camp to begin with.
My flowers are dead again, in case you were wondering. The pot on my balcony is officially a place where beautiful flowers go to die. It is so depressing. I often whisper “I’m sorry” before leaving for work, but it doesn’t feel like enough, especially because the pots on the balcony below are abounding with healthy petunias. (I get it, 6E, gardening is your thing. You’re a green thumb.) My mom, always the optimist, suggested that we plant a nice “hearty house plant” in the pot, but I don’t have the stomach. I simply cannot kill again.
Sometimes, on my lunch break, I go and lay out on my parents deck because it is close to the office, and I refuse to allow something silly like a job prevent me from getting an irresistible sun-kissed glow. This was a delightful summer routine in June. Recently though, I feel lucky to make it out of those lunch hours alive. I oil up and read my book and convince myself that “this is the life”, but then sweat drips into my eyes and bugs get stuck in the oil and all I want is to be back at my desk crunching numbers.
I have what feels like a life-or-death struggle every day after work because my black car with black leather seats feels more like a Cherokee sweat lodge than a fuel-efficient Jetta. I try to prepare by wearing a power skirt that can be hiked up in the car, but the seats burn my legs and I whimper for the first 5 minutes of my commute home. No! Don’t tell me—yes, another chap stick has melted into the cap. By this point, I’m parched beyond belief, but the only water bottle in sight has been boiling in the car all day, and taking a sip would surely kill me. The AC takes forever to get cold, and hot air blows on me like an unforgiving Sahara wind. Now I’m in survival mode. I put the Jetta in sport, lay on the accelerator and avoid the I-25 like the plague. An icy Perrier and a cold compress await me at home, and this keeps me forging ahead.
Not to mention what this heat wave is doing to my workout routine. A run in the park? I’ll faint. Hot yoga? Get real. Expending any extra energy in this environment can’t be healthy anyways, especially because I drink one cup of coffee in the morning and am automatically dehydrated for the remainder of the day. All I want to do after work is eat snow cones in my underwear while a hot ass spritzes me with Evian upon demand. Is that so much to ask?
I know what some of you are thinking: “Add some humidity and then you’ll know what hot is!!!” or “Spend a summer in Louisiana and then we’ll talk, honey!!!” To that I say, shut up. This isn’t a competition; this is man vs. wild, and last time I checked, we’re all humans. Now, be a doll and fetch me a Zima—it’s gonna be another scorcher.
Monday, May 3, 2010
24" of Hot Dog
It seems like just yesterday that I was singing the praises of the cold fronts descending upon Colorado; how nice it was to pull on a sweater and jeans and just ooze in front of the fire with a nice cup of spiced cider. Now, it’s May, and I literally hate sweaters. I hate jeans. I want to throw the sweaters and jeans into the fire and bail. In fact, come May, I start dressing for summer even if it’s in blatant disregard for the weather. Snowstorms in May do not deserve to be dignified with a response, especially when we’ve waited patiently all winter to pull on a slutty romper and hit the town. Just yesterday, I went for a run in the rain, which turned into sleet halfway through. But since it was May, I kept convincing myself how “fun” the run was and how “pretty” the day was and how “happy” I was to be outside. Two can play at this game, Colorado spring.
All of the rules change when it starts to get warm. Otter Pops and Slurpees become their own food group. Kenny Chesney plays on repeat and no one objects. Joining an adult’s sports league and slugging beers on a work night is not only acceptable, but expected. You ride your bike places, not only because it’s trendy and athletic, but because the black leather seats in your car get so goddamn hot that you’d do anything to feel a bit of a breeze. After-work happy hours on the patio become obligatory (“Order another marg, DO IT!!”) and high-intensity workouts are mandatory (“Your beach bod is your business, I’m taking another lap!!!”) You don’t judge a girl at the bar who’s still in her swimsuit, because she’s been at the pool all day and she parties and she’s cool. And even if you hate baseball, you don’t turn down an opportunity to go to a game because you can eat 24 inches of hot dog without apology.
Warm weather is not without its own set of challenges, however. Last Spring, I was thrilled to have my own little patio and high on the idea of planting some beautiful flowers to really brighten it up. I spent one glorious afternoon at the hardware store, happy to have the excuse to go. (I love hardware stores so much that I’d go and just peruse if it was socially acceptable.) I lugged the giant bag of soil and enormous terracotta planters up to my 7th floor apartment and placed each flower with love and tenderness. I showered them with a healthy dose of Miracle Grow, and swept the residual soil onto the patio below (oops), quite pleased with myself. I went above and beyond for this project, and within a week, the entire planter was DEAD. I was crushed! Open any inspirational calendar and you’ll find a picture of a flower growing through the concrete in Harlem, but somehow the fertile soils of my patio just weren’t good enough. What ingrates, I gave them EVERYTHING! I’ve had a whole year to change my strategy, and I plan to try my luck as a green thumb again in the coming weeks. Who wants to go to the hardware store? Anyone? That’s alright, I’d rather go alone.
As soon as it stops sleeting, I’m hitting the links… hard. I recently became the proud owner of a new set of golf clubs. This wouldn’t be noteworthy if I hadn’t spent the last two summers golfing with only three clubs and a haggard bag I bought at a garage sale. Now the pressure’s really on to improve my game—I can no longer justify throwing my ball out of the sand and onto the green because I “don’t have a sand wedge”. Come to think of it, I may have done myself a serious disservice with this new acquisition. I’m also looking forward to fly fishing with my Dad; nothing like pulling on a pair of skin-tight waders and spending the day untangling your line from the branch behind you that you didn’t see. Oh well, maybe it will teach me patience for my golf game; lord knows I’ll need it.
So ‘tis the season to toss all of your winter gear into the fire, or for a less dramatic approach, simply store it. Order that third marg, wear your swimsuit to the bar, measure the meat you eat in inches; anything goes! And if you’re like me and you accidentally murder a pot of plants, just remind yourself they were just a bunch of bitch ass pansies… literally.
All of the rules change when it starts to get warm. Otter Pops and Slurpees become their own food group. Kenny Chesney plays on repeat and no one objects. Joining an adult’s sports league and slugging beers on a work night is not only acceptable, but expected. You ride your bike places, not only because it’s trendy and athletic, but because the black leather seats in your car get so goddamn hot that you’d do anything to feel a bit of a breeze. After-work happy hours on the patio become obligatory (“Order another marg, DO IT!!”) and high-intensity workouts are mandatory (“Your beach bod is your business, I’m taking another lap!!!”) You don’t judge a girl at the bar who’s still in her swimsuit, because she’s been at the pool all day and she parties and she’s cool. And even if you hate baseball, you don’t turn down an opportunity to go to a game because you can eat 24 inches of hot dog without apology.
Warm weather is not without its own set of challenges, however. Last Spring, I was thrilled to have my own little patio and high on the idea of planting some beautiful flowers to really brighten it up. I spent one glorious afternoon at the hardware store, happy to have the excuse to go. (I love hardware stores so much that I’d go and just peruse if it was socially acceptable.) I lugged the giant bag of soil and enormous terracotta planters up to my 7th floor apartment and placed each flower with love and tenderness. I showered them with a healthy dose of Miracle Grow, and swept the residual soil onto the patio below (oops), quite pleased with myself. I went above and beyond for this project, and within a week, the entire planter was DEAD. I was crushed! Open any inspirational calendar and you’ll find a picture of a flower growing through the concrete in Harlem, but somehow the fertile soils of my patio just weren’t good enough. What ingrates, I gave them EVERYTHING! I’ve had a whole year to change my strategy, and I plan to try my luck as a green thumb again in the coming weeks. Who wants to go to the hardware store? Anyone? That’s alright, I’d rather go alone.
As soon as it stops sleeting, I’m hitting the links… hard. I recently became the proud owner of a new set of golf clubs. This wouldn’t be noteworthy if I hadn’t spent the last two summers golfing with only three clubs and a haggard bag I bought at a garage sale. Now the pressure’s really on to improve my game—I can no longer justify throwing my ball out of the sand and onto the green because I “don’t have a sand wedge”. Come to think of it, I may have done myself a serious disservice with this new acquisition. I’m also looking forward to fly fishing with my Dad; nothing like pulling on a pair of skin-tight waders and spending the day untangling your line from the branch behind you that you didn’t see. Oh well, maybe it will teach me patience for my golf game; lord knows I’ll need it.
So ‘tis the season to toss all of your winter gear into the fire, or for a less dramatic approach, simply store it. Order that third marg, wear your swimsuit to the bar, measure the meat you eat in inches; anything goes! And if you’re like me and you accidentally murder a pot of plants, just remind yourself they were just a bunch of bitch ass pansies… literally.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
ROCK BOTTOM
Years ago, in a little town called New Orleans, I decided to sample the local cultural flavor and have my tarot cards read. I found myself waiting in line at a quintessential voodoo shop, mindlessly fingering a shrunken head and shaking a jar of what appeared to be a pickled pig fetus. I momentarily questioned my judgment but then resolved to have an open mind—I mean, how bad could my fortune be? When my name was finally called, I walked through a curtain of beads and sat down across from a 90 year-old bald woman with cataracts. The room smelled like burning hair. She had me cut the deck and select eight cards. “No pressure”, she wheezed, “just eight little cards to define your future”. I handed her my selection with a fair amount of confidence, expecting to hear something pleasant like, “You will marry your best friend” or “You’ve selected the card of eternal wisdom” Instead, she swallowed hard, shook her bald head, and regretfully informed me that I had chosen the ROCK BOTTOM card. “I’m sorry..?” She elaborated, “The rock bottom card conjures up images of misery, illness, poverty…” it must have been obvious that I was on the verge of throwing up because she stopped listing off what else “rock bottom” could entail and cheerfully added that I had also selected cards that foretold a future of great wisdom and motherhood and eternal love. It didn’t matter though. It was too late. Nothing matters once you’ve chosen the “rock bottom” card. I paid my $40 (easily the most depressing money I’ve ever spent), and resolved that the words “rock bottom” were never to be spoken aloud, convinced that if I ignored the disturbing reading it would be as if it never happened. I swore off cataracts and tarot cards forever. That is, until last Monday.
I was minding my own business, heading to TJ Maxx on my lunch break like any hard-working American gal would, when I spotted a glossy, purple card wedged under my wiper. The first thing I saw was an anime angel sitting on a rock with a glowing bird in her hand. Upon further inspection, it was not just a card, but rather an invitation; an invitation to a “new spiritual journey for a better tomorrow”. Oh, no, I thought, already anticipating what I would find on the back. I nervously glanced around to see if any other cars had the invitation—no, only mine. Unable to stop myself, I flipped the card over, and there it was: “EXPERIENCE THE MYSTICAL TAROT CARDS, OR THE PERSONAL TOUCH OF PALM READING”. It then listed off some other services; among the more intriguing were Angel Soulmate Readings, Clairvoyant Readings and Past Lives. “Iiiiinteresting,” I thought, feeling myself become seduced, but I quickly caught myself. No. Not again. Not after what happened last time. Throw that cursed card away and get to TJ, you Maxxinista, you! I couldn’t throw it away though. It was too eerie that I was being singled-out and beckoned in this way. Could the universe be speaking to me?? Besides, I still had too many questions: the card only had a phone number-- no name. Who is this tarot card phantom? It boasted they had been “nominated by the National Astrological Association as Denver’s Top Psychic Advisor”, but did they win?? Did the inclusion of the anime graphics imply Asian involvement? Overwhelmed, I threw the card in my bag and went to clear my mind in the bedding section of TJ Maxx.
Wednesday 10:25:00—two days later and I am still staring at the card. It stares back, alluring me with its vibrant shades of violet and infinite mystical possibilities. I weigh my options. I could call and hear some awful news, just like last time. (The words “rock bottom” resonate in my ears, and I shudder.) Then there’s a chance I got the card for a reason, and if I don’t call, something awful will actually happen. I decide acting is better than react—Oh, who am I kidding? I am drunk with the magical possibilities. I pick up the phone, dial. A woman answers, and I hear a small child throwing a tantrum in the background.
“Who is this?” I ask in a small voice, waiting with baited breath to hear the answer.
“This is Pam”, she answers with an irritated tone. “Who is this?” It sounds like she may be doing dishes.
“Umm, I got a flyer on my car. Where are you?”
“Off of Colfax and Kipling” she says.
And just like that, the magic is gone. The stars are not aligning. I have not been chosen by the universe. This isn’t some mystical Asian tarot phantom summoning me to divulge the details of my destiny; this is just some mundane soccer mom on Colfax doing dishes and preying on spiritually-vulnerable people like me. “Shame on you” I whisper, and I hang up the phone.
Who actually falls for that stuff anyways?
I was minding my own business, heading to TJ Maxx on my lunch break like any hard-working American gal would, when I spotted a glossy, purple card wedged under my wiper. The first thing I saw was an anime angel sitting on a rock with a glowing bird in her hand. Upon further inspection, it was not just a card, but rather an invitation; an invitation to a “new spiritual journey for a better tomorrow”. Oh, no, I thought, already anticipating what I would find on the back. I nervously glanced around to see if any other cars had the invitation—no, only mine. Unable to stop myself, I flipped the card over, and there it was: “EXPERIENCE THE MYSTICAL TAROT CARDS, OR THE PERSONAL TOUCH OF PALM READING”. It then listed off some other services; among the more intriguing were Angel Soulmate Readings, Clairvoyant Readings and Past Lives. “Iiiiinteresting,” I thought, feeling myself become seduced, but I quickly caught myself. No. Not again. Not after what happened last time. Throw that cursed card away and get to TJ, you Maxxinista, you! I couldn’t throw it away though. It was too eerie that I was being singled-out and beckoned in this way. Could the universe be speaking to me?? Besides, I still had too many questions: the card only had a phone number-- no name. Who is this tarot card phantom? It boasted they had been “nominated by the National Astrological Association as Denver’s Top Psychic Advisor”, but did they win?? Did the inclusion of the anime graphics imply Asian involvement? Overwhelmed, I threw the card in my bag and went to clear my mind in the bedding section of TJ Maxx.
Wednesday 10:25:00—two days later and I am still staring at the card. It stares back, alluring me with its vibrant shades of violet and infinite mystical possibilities. I weigh my options. I could call and hear some awful news, just like last time. (The words “rock bottom” resonate in my ears, and I shudder.) Then there’s a chance I got the card for a reason, and if I don’t call, something awful will actually happen. I decide acting is better than react—Oh, who am I kidding? I am drunk with the magical possibilities. I pick up the phone, dial. A woman answers, and I hear a small child throwing a tantrum in the background.
“Who is this?” I ask in a small voice, waiting with baited breath to hear the answer.
“This is Pam”, she answers with an irritated tone. “Who is this?” It sounds like she may be doing dishes.
“Umm, I got a flyer on my car. Where are you?”
“Off of Colfax and Kipling” she says.
And just like that, the magic is gone. The stars are not aligning. I have not been chosen by the universe. This isn’t some mystical Asian tarot phantom summoning me to divulge the details of my destiny; this is just some mundane soccer mom on Colfax doing dishes and preying on spiritually-vulnerable people like me. “Shame on you” I whisper, and I hang up the phone.
Who actually falls for that stuff anyways?
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Working On My Avatar Butt
Going to the movies used to be fun, until recently when all you see in the previews are little sneak-peeks of the world ending. The previews just make you want to end it now because, guess what? Tomorrow looks horrible. Humans being farmed for blood, meteors crashing into earth, biochemical warfare… Jodie Foster is going to make a killing in the next few years playing her standard frantic roles. I, personally, am kind of an old-fashioned gal. What if I just want to see a Rom-Com and not something that brings back that familiar feeling of Y2K panic? I’ve burned a hole in my When Harry Met Sally DVD. Get to work, Jennifer and Julia! Get off your ass, Cameron, and give me a mindlessly stupid love story. If movie previews are any indication of what’s to come, the future is exceedingly frightening and I don’t wanna go.
Two nights ago I saw Avatar, which was a surprising move for someone who normally hates all things futuristic and/or Sci-Fi. But let me tell ya: It was amazing. So amazing in fact that I’m now blogging about Avatar, which is by far the nerdiest thing I have EVER done. I will say this: it helped me on a very personal level. My new year’s resolution is now officially to get my butt as tight as an Avatar’s. The problem with Avatar, aside from granting Michelle Rodriguez yet another opportunity to wear a soiled wife beater in the jungle and use dykie one-liners while doing so, was that it made me hate humans. Here you have Pandora, a utopian indiglo forest on a faraway planet, flowing with a network of the positive energy of all living things and inhabited by docile, gentle creatures. And what do the humans do? Bomb the shit out of it. Blow it to smithereens. (Side note: I would hope that by the year 2154 we’d have something cooler to scream in battle than “GET SOME!!!”) It’s no big secret that humans are inherently greedy, but if they could stand to ruin a place like Pandora, Earth doesn’t have a fighting chance.
I am afraid for my own personal success in the future, because I am already struggling with today’s technological challenges. For example: Redbox. Redbox has just bent me over and had me. It all started one evening when I was feeling particularly techy and decided to rent a movie from a Redbox outside of a 7-11. I ran into my first challenge when I was unable to figure out how to get a synopsis of the available movies, and was thus left with just the title and the cast. After much deliberation, I chose something with a pleasant title and an array of Hollywood’s finest. Long story short, it turned out to be a horror movie that I watched alone in the dark and had nightmares about for a whole week. So that was killer. Three weeks passed before I remembered I had to return the stupid thing, and there began the real trail of tears. I went to one 7-11 and three McDonalds in one day, an afternoon that would be completely inexcusable under any other circumstances, trying to return the movie. All Redboxes were full. I then sat on hold with Redbox Customer Service for 30 minutes, listening to their recording that said, “Did you know you can return your movie to any Redbox location? Now that’s convenience with a capital ‘C’!!!” No, that’s an infuriating lie. When I finally got a representative, I told him flat-out that I would not be paying any fees because of the emotional trauma that my afternoon of McDonalds hopping had caused me, and he waived the charges. Victorious, except that I still have yet to return the movie. See?? I’m hopeless. If I’m expected to wrangle a pterodactyl and ride it bareback anytime soon, I’m doomed.
Luckily for people like me, there is still a semblance of normalcy in the world. I still have the option of making my deposits with a teller at the bank and having human interaction. I can still read a newspaper, go hiking without seeing anything man-made for miles, and travel to parts of the world untainted by “progress” and the problems that go with it. Those things are important to me. And as for next time I decide to rent a movie from Redbox? I’ll just let my Avatar handle that.
Two nights ago I saw Avatar, which was a surprising move for someone who normally hates all things futuristic and/or Sci-Fi. But let me tell ya: It was amazing. So amazing in fact that I’m now blogging about Avatar, which is by far the nerdiest thing I have EVER done. I will say this: it helped me on a very personal level. My new year’s resolution is now officially to get my butt as tight as an Avatar’s. The problem with Avatar, aside from granting Michelle Rodriguez yet another opportunity to wear a soiled wife beater in the jungle and use dykie one-liners while doing so, was that it made me hate humans. Here you have Pandora, a utopian indiglo forest on a faraway planet, flowing with a network of the positive energy of all living things and inhabited by docile, gentle creatures. And what do the humans do? Bomb the shit out of it. Blow it to smithereens. (Side note: I would hope that by the year 2154 we’d have something cooler to scream in battle than “GET SOME!!!”) It’s no big secret that humans are inherently greedy, but if they could stand to ruin a place like Pandora, Earth doesn’t have a fighting chance.
I am afraid for my own personal success in the future, because I am already struggling with today’s technological challenges. For example: Redbox. Redbox has just bent me over and had me. It all started one evening when I was feeling particularly techy and decided to rent a movie from a Redbox outside of a 7-11. I ran into my first challenge when I was unable to figure out how to get a synopsis of the available movies, and was thus left with just the title and the cast. After much deliberation, I chose something with a pleasant title and an array of Hollywood’s finest. Long story short, it turned out to be a horror movie that I watched alone in the dark and had nightmares about for a whole week. So that was killer. Three weeks passed before I remembered I had to return the stupid thing, and there began the real trail of tears. I went to one 7-11 and three McDonalds in one day, an afternoon that would be completely inexcusable under any other circumstances, trying to return the movie. All Redboxes were full. I then sat on hold with Redbox Customer Service for 30 minutes, listening to their recording that said, “Did you know you can return your movie to any Redbox location? Now that’s convenience with a capital ‘C’!!!” No, that’s an infuriating lie. When I finally got a representative, I told him flat-out that I would not be paying any fees because of the emotional trauma that my afternoon of McDonalds hopping had caused me, and he waived the charges. Victorious, except that I still have yet to return the movie. See?? I’m hopeless. If I’m expected to wrangle a pterodactyl and ride it bareback anytime soon, I’m doomed.
Luckily for people like me, there is still a semblance of normalcy in the world. I still have the option of making my deposits with a teller at the bank and having human interaction. I can still read a newspaper, go hiking without seeing anything man-made for miles, and travel to parts of the world untainted by “progress” and the problems that go with it. Those things are important to me. And as for next time I decide to rent a movie from Redbox? I’ll just let my Avatar handle that.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Can we not call it "Tom the Turkey" this year?
My two favorite holidays are the 4th of July and Thanksgiving; 4th of July because you can wear an American flag thong bathing suit and chase vodka shots with Otter Pops, and Thanksgiving for more meaningful reasons.
Here’s what I know about Thanksgiving: I know that I can go out in Denver on a Wednesday night and know every person downtown. I know I’ll run into people I went to kindergarten with and people I haven’t seen since high school. I know that I’ll inevitably get carried away taking shots at the bar with long lost friends and wake up hung over on Thanksgiving morning, but I’ll somehow find the resolve to go running in the park behind my parents’ house with my mom.
I know that my dad will almost persuade me to go waterskiing with him and his friends on Thanksgiving morning, but I’ll always chicken out at the last minute. I know that we’ll turn on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade while we’re cooking, even though we all hate it. (There’s nothing creepier than a giant Charlie Brown float. Period.) I know that I’ll lose my enthusiasm for peeling potatoes after the third one but I’ll have to do at least 30, and my hand will be sore from using this weird potato masher we have, and I’ll use at least a box of butter before I’m finished, but it’s OK because mashed potatoes are a Thanksgiving staple and the people are depending on me for god’s sake!!
I know that my grandparents will show up two hours early—in earlier years, it was so that we could all go for a bike ride, but now it’s mainly because they’re too excited to wait until 4:00. I know I love cooking with my grandma(s) and can’t imagine a Thanksgiving without them. I know Courtney gets to make the gravy because I always help my dad carve the turkey. I know someone will inevitably personify the turkey, calling him “Tom Turkey”, and I’ll roll my eyes, because why is that necessary? I know no one really likes dark meat. I know that people will always take some sweet potatoes for courtesy’s sake, but they don’t hold a candle to the mashed potatoes. (“By all means, get seconds! I made enough to feed an army!”) And I know people WILL get seconds because Thanksgiving is the one day people go hog wild and don’t feel bad about it. (The average American consumes 4500 calories and 229 grams of fat on Thanksgiving. 215 of them are from my mashed potatoes. You’re welcome.)
I know everyone ends up in the kitchen, no matter how many hors d’ourves we put out to lure them into the family room. I know that on this one day, everyone likes football, or at least pretends to. (This year, Orton better power through that pansy-ass ankle injury and show me something. We’re on a slippery slope here Kyle, don’t let us down.) I know that we’ll drink Bloody Mary’s to start, but we’ll blow through several bottles of wine as the night progresses. (People say it’s the L-tryptophan in the turkey that makes everyone tired—it’s obviously the 8 glasses of wine. Also, people never know how to pronounce L-tryptophan. It’s el-trip-teh-fan. Again, you’re welcome.)
Mostly, I know how easy it is to take things for granted. It’s so easy to get caught up in trivial things and forget to count your blessings. So between the best mashed potatoes you’ve ever had (“Please, stop thanking me, I know they’re good but I hardly did anything, really!”) and the questionable side dish (“Jamie, this pheasant side dish is… different!”), I always pause to think about two things: how truly fortunate I am, and how truly excited I am for leftovers.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
Here’s what I know about Thanksgiving: I know that I can go out in Denver on a Wednesday night and know every person downtown. I know I’ll run into people I went to kindergarten with and people I haven’t seen since high school. I know that I’ll inevitably get carried away taking shots at the bar with long lost friends and wake up hung over on Thanksgiving morning, but I’ll somehow find the resolve to go running in the park behind my parents’ house with my mom.
I know that my dad will almost persuade me to go waterskiing with him and his friends on Thanksgiving morning, but I’ll always chicken out at the last minute. I know that we’ll turn on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade while we’re cooking, even though we all hate it. (There’s nothing creepier than a giant Charlie Brown float. Period.) I know that I’ll lose my enthusiasm for peeling potatoes after the third one but I’ll have to do at least 30, and my hand will be sore from using this weird potato masher we have, and I’ll use at least a box of butter before I’m finished, but it’s OK because mashed potatoes are a Thanksgiving staple and the people are depending on me for god’s sake!!
I know that my grandparents will show up two hours early—in earlier years, it was so that we could all go for a bike ride, but now it’s mainly because they’re too excited to wait until 4:00. I know I love cooking with my grandma(s) and can’t imagine a Thanksgiving without them. I know Courtney gets to make the gravy because I always help my dad carve the turkey. I know someone will inevitably personify the turkey, calling him “Tom Turkey”, and I’ll roll my eyes, because why is that necessary? I know no one really likes dark meat. I know that people will always take some sweet potatoes for courtesy’s sake, but they don’t hold a candle to the mashed potatoes. (“By all means, get seconds! I made enough to feed an army!”) And I know people WILL get seconds because Thanksgiving is the one day people go hog wild and don’t feel bad about it. (The average American consumes 4500 calories and 229 grams of fat on Thanksgiving. 215 of them are from my mashed potatoes. You’re welcome.)
I know everyone ends up in the kitchen, no matter how many hors d’ourves we put out to lure them into the family room. I know that on this one day, everyone likes football, or at least pretends to. (This year, Orton better power through that pansy-ass ankle injury and show me something. We’re on a slippery slope here Kyle, don’t let us down.) I know that we’ll drink Bloody Mary’s to start, but we’ll blow through several bottles of wine as the night progresses. (People say it’s the L-tryptophan in the turkey that makes everyone tired—it’s obviously the 8 glasses of wine. Also, people never know how to pronounce L-tryptophan. It’s el-trip-teh-fan. Again, you’re welcome.)
Mostly, I know how easy it is to take things for granted. It’s so easy to get caught up in trivial things and forget to count your blessings. So between the best mashed potatoes you’ve ever had (“Please, stop thanking me, I know they’re good but I hardly did anything, really!”) and the questionable side dish (“Jamie, this pheasant side dish is… different!”), I always pause to think about two things: how truly fortunate I am, and how truly excited I am for leftovers.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Playthings of the '90s
Last night at dinner club, we started talking about how great it was growing up in the ‘90s. Not just because we were approaching the dawn of a new millennium or because Hannah Montana wasn’t “being Miley” yet, but because the absolute BEST toys came out in the ‘90s, and we were at the perfect, ripe age to enjoy them.
Arguably the most high-maintenance ‘90s toy was the Tamagotchi. I had it clipped to my backpack to ensure easy accessibility, and I absolutely fussed over it all day. You can’t blame me though; I had the neediest little virtual pet on the planet. I’d feed it, clean up after it had disgusting accidents right in the middle of the screen, and feel a surge of maternal pride when it would hatch into something new. It was all fun and games until it hatched into Bill Clinton once, which was far from the mystical Japanese creature I had been awaiting with baited breath, and I let it die.
I’m convinced that childhood obesity was lower when we were growing up purely because of another unforgettable ‘90s toy: the Skip-It. I used to Skip-It on my driveway until it was too dark to read the counter, which by the way, was absolute magic. How did it know how many times I’d Skip’d-It? It was technology at its finest, and I was pushing it to the limits. I made it to 999 several times and was horrified when it would reset to 0. There goes a whole after-school afternoon. Great. I could have been chatting with a friend on my landline.
GAK was a great '90s toy, if you can even call it that. I honestly don’t know how to categorize GAK. First of all, it was made by Nickelodeon, which was weird. And was it a solid? A liquid? Did it cause Cancer? Could you eat it? Who knows, and honestly, who cares. I used to goop it around in my hands for hours, allowing myself to just get lost in its questionable composition. I have a vague memory of blowing bubbles with GAK, which had to be an absolute germfest, because let's face it: if you brought GAK to school, you could count on at least 9 elementary kids fingering it with their grubby little monkey bar hands.
Two words: Polly Pocket. Polly lived the most awesome life in her pocket-sized world. There wasn’t a whole lot you could do with her other than move her two inches to the other side of her case and marvel at how pretty she was, but that was OK, because a tiny person was living in a tiny universe in my cubby. I always wondered what she was doing in there while I was in class. (Obviously I read Indian in the Cupboard too many times…)
Puppy Surprise was a hilarious '90s toy. You bought a pregnant stuffed dog with a Velcro stomach and basically just prayed it had a nice healthy litter inside. The ultimate let down was tearing into that mama dog’s uterus and finding one lousy puppy. No one wanted the worthless runt, and this scenario often resulted in Puppy Surprise being abandoned in favor of Baby Alive, who would pee or poop her diaper without fail every time. At least kids of the ‘90s could count on something.
You know what was an absurd 90’s phenomenon? Toy crazes. The fanaticism over Beanie Babies may be the best example, but let us not forget about Tickle Me Elmo and Furby (which, by the way, were both absolutely terrifying with their alien voices and predator-like movements). Moms would literally beat each other DOWN over $20 toys, and it was always fun to see the K-Mart carnage on the news, especially during the holidays.
If I'm honest, I feel bad for Millennium babies. Nickelodeon hasn’t produced a carcinogenic substance in years. And how are little four-year-old girls supposed to practice their mothering skills if their dolls don’t even soil their diapers anymore? Don’t even get me started on how many children would probably just keel over and die of exhaustion if the prehistoric counter on the Skip-It was replaced with a digital one. No, my friends, we made it out of childhood just in the nick of time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go feed my Tamagotchi. It’s been alive for 12 days and I think it’s about to win a Nobel Peace Prize.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Fall: Leather Jackets and Cranberries CDs Allowed
I look forward to Fall’s arrival for many reasons. Besides the obvious (stunning color changes, small children divebombing in piles of leaves, leather jackets being acceptable/not pervy for a few short months), I like the fact that people stop putting so much emphasis on the goddamn weather. During summertime, if it unexpectedly rains or gets cloudy, people lose their shit. “I WANTED TO GO TO THE POOL TODAY!!!” In the Fall, you just expect it to be damp, dark and emo, and you’re cool with it.
Why does it have to be sunny every day anyways? Granted, I live in a state where it is sunny 300 days a year, so a cloudy day is like a fun event. When it’s cloudy and cold, we all drink tea and put on like 30 layers and feel cool walking around with an umbrella. You’re allowed to feel feelings and write in a journal and listen to The Cranberries in your car. Someone inevitably wants a Starbucks to tote around when we’re out and about, more for the look than the actual beverage.
It does get a little ridiculous how many things people use the cold as an excuse for. Any cloudy day is automatically 2 things: a great movie day and a great day for baking. When it’s cold, people simply hate being productive. “I was gonna go for a run, but it’s so icky out!!” Ok, but that doesn’t mean you can eat cookie dough in bed all day like a fatass. No wonder people gain weight in the winter. Likewise, just because it’s cold doesn’t give you the green light to wear disgusting sweatpants or flannel PJ bottoms in public. Pulling on a pair of jeans doesn’t require that much extra effort, I promise.
Something I really hate is when people act like they’re the only one affected by the weather.
“I just feel so blah today. Must be the weather.”
“I wish I was still snuggled up in bed instead of here at work.”
“It took me 20 extra minutes to get here today because the roads were so bad. (Dramatic sigh)”
Or how about people who bitch about the weather when they choose to live in a place that gets cold?
“Man, I should move back to Cali!!” Then go, bro!
When it starts getting cold, I like getting all of my winter clothes out of storage. It’s like Christmas comes early, only better because it’s free. My change of emotion towards my cold-weather garments is funny, because when I put them away last spring, I despised them. They were homely and mundane. Now, seeing them again for the first time in months, they are delightful and full of potential. I lovingly hang them in my closet while I stuff my disgusting summer clothes into boxes. See you next year, you haggard rags.
Also, two words: CROCKPOT COMEBACK. My favorite kitchen accessory sat on a shelf all summer looking pathetic because chili and stew somehow didn’t sound too good when it was 97 degrees. As soon as the temp drops below 60 though, it’s on. There is nothing quite as rewarding as knowing that the raw chicken and random canned goods you dumped in the CP standing in your towel at 6am will be the greatest kitchen creation of all time when you get home. It almost feels like cheating.
You may think me a simpleton for enjoying these things so much; SO BE IT. Let me have these fleeting days of pleasure, because come March, my “trendy” winter clothes and my “fun” cloudy days and my “tantalizing” Crockpot creations will all send me into an emo rage that will make me want to end it. I won’t though, because spring will be near, and I’ll have another blog to write. Mark your calendars.
Why does it have to be sunny every day anyways? Granted, I live in a state where it is sunny 300 days a year, so a cloudy day is like a fun event. When it’s cloudy and cold, we all drink tea and put on like 30 layers and feel cool walking around with an umbrella. You’re allowed to feel feelings and write in a journal and listen to The Cranberries in your car. Someone inevitably wants a Starbucks to tote around when we’re out and about, more for the look than the actual beverage.
It does get a little ridiculous how many things people use the cold as an excuse for. Any cloudy day is automatically 2 things: a great movie day and a great day for baking. When it’s cold, people simply hate being productive. “I was gonna go for a run, but it’s so icky out!!” Ok, but that doesn’t mean you can eat cookie dough in bed all day like a fatass. No wonder people gain weight in the winter. Likewise, just because it’s cold doesn’t give you the green light to wear disgusting sweatpants or flannel PJ bottoms in public. Pulling on a pair of jeans doesn’t require that much extra effort, I promise.
Something I really hate is when people act like they’re the only one affected by the weather.
“I just feel so blah today. Must be the weather.”
“I wish I was still snuggled up in bed instead of here at work.”
“It took me 20 extra minutes to get here today because the roads were so bad. (Dramatic sigh)”
Or how about people who bitch about the weather when they choose to live in a place that gets cold?
“Man, I should move back to Cali!!” Then go, bro!
When it starts getting cold, I like getting all of my winter clothes out of storage. It’s like Christmas comes early, only better because it’s free. My change of emotion towards my cold-weather garments is funny, because when I put them away last spring, I despised them. They were homely and mundane. Now, seeing them again for the first time in months, they are delightful and full of potential. I lovingly hang them in my closet while I stuff my disgusting summer clothes into boxes. See you next year, you haggard rags.
Also, two words: CROCKPOT COMEBACK. My favorite kitchen accessory sat on a shelf all summer looking pathetic because chili and stew somehow didn’t sound too good when it was 97 degrees. As soon as the temp drops below 60 though, it’s on. There is nothing quite as rewarding as knowing that the raw chicken and random canned goods you dumped in the CP standing in your towel at 6am will be the greatest kitchen creation of all time when you get home. It almost feels like cheating.
You may think me a simpleton for enjoying these things so much; SO BE IT. Let me have these fleeting days of pleasure, because come March, my “trendy” winter clothes and my “fun” cloudy days and my “tantalizing” Crockpot creations will all send me into an emo rage that will make me want to end it. I won’t though, because spring will be near, and I’ll have another blog to write. Mark your calendars.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Next Stop: Womanhood
In several ancient Native American societies, entire villages celebrated a girl’s first period to mark the beginning of her transition into womanhood. In Spanish speaking communities, una quinceañera commemorates the day a girl becomes eligible for more womanly responsibilities, such as work and marriage. In America, you know a girl is well on her way when she can successfully plan a menu, shop for it, cook it and simultaneously entertain a large group of people. This rite of passage is known simply as the cocktail party, and I had my first last night.
It all started when some beloved family members of mine were in town from New York and mentioned that they’d like to see my place. “I’ll have everyone over for a cocktail party!!!” I naively volunteered, not wholly understanding the implications of my offer. Just like that, I was committed. I had made BIG promises to my BIG family, and I knew I had my work cut out for me. I also knew I couldn’t do it alone. So I asked Michelle if she wanted to make it a roommate cocktail party, she agreed, and suddenly I had an accomplice. Things were looking up.
That weekend, when Michelle and I were hung over and wandering around Target for two hours as we often do on Saturdays, we decided to buy some invitations for our soirée. (When you’re at Target, everything sounds like a great purchase. Waffle makers, fake eyelashes, a new pillow… party invitations were the most logical thing in our basket.) We chose some simple invites that vomited gold glitter all over the place but somehow also oozed elegance and sophistication. We exchanged a glance that said it all: “Let’s do this”.
Before we knew it, it was menu-planning time. We emailed, texted, and had a number of serious conversations before we agreed on several hors d’ouerves. Some were family favorites, some were new challenges. That’s when it hit me. There was no meat on the menu. We needed a meat! PEOPLE LIKE MEAT! That initiated a whole new conversation:
“Fish?”
“ Too hard to cook.”
“ Beef?”
“ Too bloody.”
“ Pork?”
“ Too mysterious and creepy.”
That left poultry, always a safe bet. Chicken skewers with peanut sauce it was.
Nexxxt it was grocery shopping. I made my first trip to Taco Soopers (hilariously named by us for its “urban” local and extensive selection of authentic Mexican products) on Sunday. In my hand I had a color-coded, elaborate shopping list that ironically neglected to mention most of the essential ingredients. That’s why I was back at Taco Soopers on Monday, Tuesday (food stamp day) and Wednesday.
Michelle also had a tough time shopping. I would get frantic texts from her, like “WHERE DO I FIND THE WASABI??” and “WHAT ISLE ARE THE RICE CRACKERS ON?” (For your reference, there’s a reason we didn’t name it “Eggroll Soopers”—Taco Soopers has a pathetic selection of Asian foods, and didn’t have either of the aforementioned items.)
We were finally ready for action. We grated cheese. We toasted almonds. We mashed cream cheese up with our hands. We skewered chicken and fried bacon. We rolled out cookie dough and sliced kiwis. We cried from chopping onions and laughed when we realized (too late) that the tomatoes actually did have to be seeded. We drank a lot of wine.
We. Were. Exhausted.
On the day of the party, we were feeling pretty organized. At work, I made a pre-party list that looked like this:
It all started when some beloved family members of mine were in town from New York and mentioned that they’d like to see my place. “I’ll have everyone over for a cocktail party!!!” I naively volunteered, not wholly understanding the implications of my offer. Just like that, I was committed. I had made BIG promises to my BIG family, and I knew I had my work cut out for me. I also knew I couldn’t do it alone. So I asked Michelle if she wanted to make it a roommate cocktail party, she agreed, and suddenly I had an accomplice. Things were looking up.
That weekend, when Michelle and I were hung over and wandering around Target for two hours as we often do on Saturdays, we decided to buy some invitations for our soirée. (When you’re at Target, everything sounds like a great purchase. Waffle makers, fake eyelashes, a new pillow… party invitations were the most logical thing in our basket.) We chose some simple invites that vomited gold glitter all over the place but somehow also oozed elegance and sophistication. We exchanged a glance that said it all: “Let’s do this”.
Before we knew it, it was menu-planning time. We emailed, texted, and had a number of serious conversations before we agreed on several hors d’ouerves. Some were family favorites, some were new challenges. That’s when it hit me. There was no meat on the menu. We needed a meat! PEOPLE LIKE MEAT! That initiated a whole new conversation:
“Fish?”
“ Too hard to cook.”
“ Beef?”
“ Too bloody.”
“ Pork?”
“ Too mysterious and creepy.”
That left poultry, always a safe bet. Chicken skewers with peanut sauce it was.
Nexxxt it was grocery shopping. I made my first trip to Taco Soopers (hilariously named by us for its “urban” local and extensive selection of authentic Mexican products) on Sunday. In my hand I had a color-coded, elaborate shopping list that ironically neglected to mention most of the essential ingredients. That’s why I was back at Taco Soopers on Monday, Tuesday (food stamp day) and Wednesday.
Michelle also had a tough time shopping. I would get frantic texts from her, like “WHERE DO I FIND THE WASABI??” and “WHAT ISLE ARE THE RICE CRACKERS ON?” (For your reference, there’s a reason we didn’t name it “Eggroll Soopers”—Taco Soopers has a pathetic selection of Asian foods, and didn’t have either of the aforementioned items.)
We were finally ready for action. We grated cheese. We toasted almonds. We mashed cream cheese up with our hands. We skewered chicken and fried bacon. We rolled out cookie dough and sliced kiwis. We cried from chopping onions and laughed when we realized (too late) that the tomatoes actually did have to be seeded. We drank a lot of wine.
We. Were. Exhausted.
On the day of the party, we were feeling pretty organized. At work, I made a pre-party list that looked like this:
- SLICE FRUIT FOR FRUIT PIZZA
- MARINATE/SKEWER/COOK CHICKEN AND MAKE SAUCE
- HEAT ALMOND DIP
- GET WINE-LOTS OF WINE
- CLEAN BATHROOM
- PUT SINATRA ON IPOD
- VACUUM
- PUT SOME MAKEUP ON
- BRUSH YOUR HAIR
Considering that 7 minutes before the guests arrived I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the bathroom floor in my party dress, the event went remarkably well. (Unless you count my aunt Pamela writing her name in the dust on one of our side tables...woops, missed a spot…) To our delight, the guests really enjoyed the hors d’ourves! The Rockies won! Everyone was rip-roaring drunk!
And after 3 hours, it was over. The people, food and wine were gone. Even the dishes weren’t that horrible to do; we merrily washed and dried. And before we called it a night, we high-fived, because we knew womanhood was not only present, it was thriving.Thursday, August 20, 2009
"Ohmmmm"
The art of yoga has long been celebrated for its positive effects on the mind, body and spirit. From the obvious (improved flexibility, muscle tone, relaxation) to the not-so obvious (massaging of internal organs, increased awareness of an impending disease, certain sexual benefits), it’s allllll good. I, myself, have become quite addicted to the ancient art, and in my trips to the Petri dish of humanity we call the yoga studio, I’ve made some observations.
If anyone has denied that yoga is blatantly sexual, they’re blatantly lying to you. Scantily clad, athletic people sweating and moaning and contorting their bodies into compromising positions? Umm, yeah. Sexual. So naturally, your mind often wanders to “extracurricular activities” while you’re in class. I always wonder (no homo) about the lucky guy who gets to marry a yoga instructor—she always has a huge rock on her finger, which makes sense, because if she can’t land a husband, there’s simply no hope for the rest of us.
Though yoga class is composed predominantly of females, there are always a few token guys that show up. I’ve learned that there are two types of male yoga-goers: the one who genuinely wants to advance his practice and the one who genuinely wants to look at girls in erotic positions. The first is adorable because he doesn’t know he’s horrible at yoga. His endearing preparedness, eagerness to learn and undulating obedience to the teacher have no bearing; his hip flexors are not flexible and never will be. His facial expressions are priceless, however. For a full two hours he might as well be a victim from Saw III. Doesn’t faze him though, because he’ll be back on Thursday, God love him.
The second guy has grown wise to the aforementioned sexual nature and overwhelming amount of flexible females in yoga. He will inevitably plant himself directly behind the cutest girl in the class, and his eyes aren’t “gazing upward to the sky” as they should be; they’re gazing directly at her ass. As much as I applaud his resourcefulness, I don’t want him behind me. My head is between my legs, idiot, I can see you ogling my downward dog.
Type-two guy isn’t the only one you want to stay away from. In fact, where you lay your mat has a lot of impact on how your class is going to go. You definitely don’t want to be next to the moaner. She sees every exhale as an opportunity to unleash the stress of her day in the form of loud, high-pitched, Mariah Carey-esque vocals. The teacher always praises her though, in the hopes that more students will just let go and surrender to the flow. There’s also the really advanced student that will make you look bad if you sit next to her. She’s the one in the headstand while everyone else struggles to balance on one foot. It’s like, we get it, yoga’s your thing. Why are you in this class anyways if you’re so amazing? Careful though: you don’t want to sit next to someone who’s never done yoga before because they will be looking at you for direction the whole time, so you’ll probably mistake them for a type-two guy or a lesbian pulling a type-two guy, which would be the ultimate trick.
For the most part though, yoga’s great. You essentially relax for two hours, sweat your ass off and feel like you get a good workout. Plus, it’s the only fitness class that ends with you laying down on the ground and sleeping. I think all exercise classes should end in shavasana. You leave feeling rejuvenated…. tingly…. ready to conquer another day at the office (or, if you’re lucky, a night in the bedroom).
Ahhh yoga, I dig you. Welcome to my life.
Namaste.
If anyone has denied that yoga is blatantly sexual, they’re blatantly lying to you. Scantily clad, athletic people sweating and moaning and contorting their bodies into compromising positions? Umm, yeah. Sexual. So naturally, your mind often wanders to “extracurricular activities” while you’re in class. I always wonder (no homo) about the lucky guy who gets to marry a yoga instructor—she always has a huge rock on her finger, which makes sense, because if she can’t land a husband, there’s simply no hope for the rest of us.
Though yoga class is composed predominantly of females, there are always a few token guys that show up. I’ve learned that there are two types of male yoga-goers: the one who genuinely wants to advance his practice and the one who genuinely wants to look at girls in erotic positions. The first is adorable because he doesn’t know he’s horrible at yoga. His endearing preparedness, eagerness to learn and undulating obedience to the teacher have no bearing; his hip flexors are not flexible and never will be. His facial expressions are priceless, however. For a full two hours he might as well be a victim from Saw III. Doesn’t faze him though, because he’ll be back on Thursday, God love him.
The second guy has grown wise to the aforementioned sexual nature and overwhelming amount of flexible females in yoga. He will inevitably plant himself directly behind the cutest girl in the class, and his eyes aren’t “gazing upward to the sky” as they should be; they’re gazing directly at her ass. As much as I applaud his resourcefulness, I don’t want him behind me. My head is between my legs, idiot, I can see you ogling my downward dog.
Type-two guy isn’t the only one you want to stay away from. In fact, where you lay your mat has a lot of impact on how your class is going to go. You definitely don’t want to be next to the moaner. She sees every exhale as an opportunity to unleash the stress of her day in the form of loud, high-pitched, Mariah Carey-esque vocals. The teacher always praises her though, in the hopes that more students will just let go and surrender to the flow. There’s also the really advanced student that will make you look bad if you sit next to her. She’s the one in the headstand while everyone else struggles to balance on one foot. It’s like, we get it, yoga’s your thing. Why are you in this class anyways if you’re so amazing? Careful though: you don’t want to sit next to someone who’s never done yoga before because they will be looking at you for direction the whole time, so you’ll probably mistake them for a type-two guy or a lesbian pulling a type-two guy, which would be the ultimate trick.
For the most part though, yoga’s great. You essentially relax for two hours, sweat your ass off and feel like you get a good workout. Plus, it’s the only fitness class that ends with you laying down on the ground and sleeping. I think all exercise classes should end in shavasana. You leave feeling rejuvenated…. tingly…. ready to conquer another day at the office (or, if you’re lucky, a night in the bedroom).
Ahhh yoga, I dig you. Welcome to my life.
Namaste.
"More to Love"? Ehh...
Like the inability to look away from a bad car crash, I watched ABC’s new series More To Love last night. Let’s dive in, shall we?
As the husky, eligible bachelor awaited his princesses with baited breath, the debonair white limo pulled up the drive and came to a dramatic halt. Then the fun began, as the robust beauties unload one-by-one, eager to get their first look at their handsome prince. It didn’t take long for the absolute fragility of the women to become apparent. First came the awkward introduction, then came the teary profession of love. (“I’d marry him, I would!!”) Not a normal sequence of events. It actually made me dread the elimination ceremony because I wasn’t sure these women could handle the rejection. I didn’t want to hang around to see it unfold, but by some inexplicable force of nature, I did.
I watched in awe as the women simultaneously embraced (one woman’s embarrassing first words to the bachelor were, “What’s your favorite food?”) and then resented their weight; they were on a virtual rollercoaster of emotions for a full primetime hour. One minute they’re on the interview set blubbering and carrying on about all of the things their weight has prevented them from accomplishing, and the next they’re wolfing down meat skewers (“I loooove me some good meat on a stick!!”, one exclaimed). Girl, you don’t get pity and meat sticks. Pick one.
Why was ABC providing meat sticks in the first place? They didn’t do that on the regular Bachelor. And as if these women weren’t humiliated enough, did they really have to display their exact weights? I watched in horror as a woman devoured artichoke dip and the words “Amanda, Waitress, 279” lit up the bottom of the screen. In case you couldn’t tell she was obese. Unnecessary ABC, unnecessary.
Look, I don’t want to sound insensitive. In fact, I wholeheartedly believe that looks are radically over-glorified in our society. There’s a misconception that physical beauty and happiness go hand-in-hand—I don’t believe that for a second. I know way too many skinny, gorgeous girls that are absolutely miserable with themselves. In reality, I don’t think the proverbial “secret to happiness” is a secret at all-just have a good heart and feel good about who you are.
Ok, back to the hour of my life I wasted last night. I’m sure there are women on the show who are comfortable with themselves, and to them, I tip my hat. Don’t go changin’. Keep on keepin’ on. The ones that kill me are the women who perpetuate their unhappiness by playing the victim because they’re overweight. If your weight is ruining your life, lose it. Go on a diet. Go for a run. Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you, because I for one have made it a priority my entire life to stay in shape. There are days when I’d rather donate my ovaries than go to the gym, but I do it anyways because I know I’ll feel good about it afterwards.
I don’t mean to sound like a total biatch. I just think people should pony-up and do what it takes to make them happy. If you ask me, life’s too short to be battling 29 other women for one man on national television, especially if you hate yourself while doing it.
As the husky, eligible bachelor awaited his princesses with baited breath, the debonair white limo pulled up the drive and came to a dramatic halt. Then the fun began, as the robust beauties unload one-by-one, eager to get their first look at their handsome prince. It didn’t take long for the absolute fragility of the women to become apparent. First came the awkward introduction, then came the teary profession of love. (“I’d marry him, I would!!”) Not a normal sequence of events. It actually made me dread the elimination ceremony because I wasn’t sure these women could handle the rejection. I didn’t want to hang around to see it unfold, but by some inexplicable force of nature, I did.
I watched in awe as the women simultaneously embraced (one woman’s embarrassing first words to the bachelor were, “What’s your favorite food?”) and then resented their weight; they were on a virtual rollercoaster of emotions for a full primetime hour. One minute they’re on the interview set blubbering and carrying on about all of the things their weight has prevented them from accomplishing, and the next they’re wolfing down meat skewers (“I loooove me some good meat on a stick!!”, one exclaimed). Girl, you don’t get pity and meat sticks. Pick one.
Why was ABC providing meat sticks in the first place? They didn’t do that on the regular Bachelor. And as if these women weren’t humiliated enough, did they really have to display their exact weights? I watched in horror as a woman devoured artichoke dip and the words “Amanda, Waitress, 279” lit up the bottom of the screen. In case you couldn’t tell she was obese. Unnecessary ABC, unnecessary.
Look, I don’t want to sound insensitive. In fact, I wholeheartedly believe that looks are radically over-glorified in our society. There’s a misconception that physical beauty and happiness go hand-in-hand—I don’t believe that for a second. I know way too many skinny, gorgeous girls that are absolutely miserable with themselves. In reality, I don’t think the proverbial “secret to happiness” is a secret at all-just have a good heart and feel good about who you are.
Ok, back to the hour of my life I wasted last night. I’m sure there are women on the show who are comfortable with themselves, and to them, I tip my hat. Don’t go changin’. Keep on keepin’ on. The ones that kill me are the women who perpetuate their unhappiness by playing the victim because they’re overweight. If your weight is ruining your life, lose it. Go on a diet. Go for a run. Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you, because I for one have made it a priority my entire life to stay in shape. There are days when I’d rather donate my ovaries than go to the gym, but I do it anyways because I know I’ll feel good about it afterwards.
I don’t mean to sound like a total biatch. I just think people should pony-up and do what it takes to make them happy. If you ask me, life’s too short to be battling 29 other women for one man on national television, especially if you hate yourself while doing it.
Disturbing Facebook
Facebook is on a slippery slope to hell. Disagree? Lend me your ears, child.
Dumb Notifications. It’s always fun to see that someone has given me a Corvette or slapped me with a donkey. What does that even mean? And just because you like playing Oregon Trail during the summer like a total dweeb doesn’t mean I want to join your dumb wagon. Why can’t there be good notifications, like “[insert hot babe] left you a dirty message on your wall”. Or, “[insert different fly baby] gave you a hickey”. Now THAT would deserve exclamation points.
“You have received a SpeedDate match!” EXCLAMATION POINT! Like I should be sooo excited. Without fail, I get this bitch of a notification each and every morning. Huh, I don’t remember signing up for SpeedDate, but OK. What kinds of creepers are populating their information into the Facebook SpeedDate database anyways? Surely no one I care to meet. Recently, SpeedDate upped their ante when they actually started listing the names of my SpeedDate suitors. Dannyboy624, 25, from Chattanooga, TN. SpaceMan, 32, from Baltimore. ToddlerLuv, 25, from San Antonio. Wow… look at that. Not even 7am and I’ve already got a redneck, a nerd and a pedophile vying for my attention. Today is going to rock!
What’s the deal with Facebook Ads using peoples’ pictures now? We didn’t even get a personal note from Marc Zuckerberg months in advance telling us it was coming! They’re just going to implement a blatant invasion of privacy like that and hope no one notices? God bless you, random kid from my Weather Lab, for updating your status and walking me through the steps to avoid that death trap. Imagine signing in one day and seeing a picture of yourself in Vegas on a stripper pole (not that I have one…) with an ad for the Morning-After Pill below it. Or a shot of your friend looking haggard with a phone number for the Colorado Meth Project below it. Low blow Facebook. Low blow.
Status Updates. Yes, I’ve been known to update my status on occasion, but it’s either because I’m being hilarious or doing something cool. No one cares that you’re “going to the dentist (ugh!), then to the post office, then to lunch with your bestie and finally to the POOL!!!” That’s not like a newsworthy day. In fact more than half of your day sounds horrible. And spare me the emo statuses that makes me think you’re about to end it. “Lonely… can anyone hear me? Does anyone care?” Get real. If you want attention go to a poetry slam or something. How about the people who write a status, accidentally omitting or misspelling a word, and then proceed to re-type it, generously leaving the original up for us to look at and laugh at. What a dumbass!
I had an accident on Facebook today and I’m still feeling pretty weird about it. Bored at work, I was innocently perusing my homepage when my mouse got tripped up at a sticky spot on my desk where my grapefruit had oozed earlier in the day. To my horror, I realized I had clicked the “Thumbs Up!” button on THE most random girl’s status, which happened to say, “Leaving on a jetplane! Thailand in 3 days!” There is absolutely no excuse for me to give a thumbs-up to that post. I haven’t talked to this girl since we awkwardly made up a Spice Girls dance at drama camp and then had a weird falling out. I’ve never been to Thailand and could really care less that she’s going. Flustered, I tried undoing my mistake, but the damage was done. I can imagine her face next time she logs in and sees that “Stephany likes your status!” She’ll probably think it’s so weird, and then wonder if I’m a lesbian now or something.
I feel like the “thumbs-up” is really personal. I’m not going to hit it unless I really feel passionate about what you’re saying. They should give you a second chance before you reach the point of no return: “Are you SURE you want to express your overwhelming support of this person’s status?” in which case I would have selected ‘ NO’, been thankful that a crisis was averted and moved on with my day.
I guess the case I’m making is that Facebook is sucking lately. It’s making me feel way more pervy and out of control than ever before. If this continues, I will have no choice but to check out match.com. It can’t be as sketchy as Facebook, right?
Dumb Notifications. It’s always fun to see that someone has given me a Corvette or slapped me with a donkey. What does that even mean? And just because you like playing Oregon Trail during the summer like a total dweeb doesn’t mean I want to join your dumb wagon. Why can’t there be good notifications, like “[insert hot babe] left you a dirty message on your wall”. Or, “[insert different fly baby] gave you a hickey”. Now THAT would deserve exclamation points.
“You have received a SpeedDate match!” EXCLAMATION POINT! Like I should be sooo excited. Without fail, I get this bitch of a notification each and every morning. Huh, I don’t remember signing up for SpeedDate, but OK. What kinds of creepers are populating their information into the Facebook SpeedDate database anyways? Surely no one I care to meet. Recently, SpeedDate upped their ante when they actually started listing the names of my SpeedDate suitors. Dannyboy624, 25, from Chattanooga, TN. SpaceMan, 32, from Baltimore. ToddlerLuv, 25, from San Antonio. Wow… look at that. Not even 7am and I’ve already got a redneck, a nerd and a pedophile vying for my attention. Today is going to rock!
What’s the deal with Facebook Ads using peoples’ pictures now? We didn’t even get a personal note from Marc Zuckerberg months in advance telling us it was coming! They’re just going to implement a blatant invasion of privacy like that and hope no one notices? God bless you, random kid from my Weather Lab, for updating your status and walking me through the steps to avoid that death trap. Imagine signing in one day and seeing a picture of yourself in Vegas on a stripper pole (not that I have one…) with an ad for the Morning-After Pill below it. Or a shot of your friend looking haggard with a phone number for the Colorado Meth Project below it. Low blow Facebook. Low blow.
Status Updates. Yes, I’ve been known to update my status on occasion, but it’s either because I’m being hilarious or doing something cool. No one cares that you’re “going to the dentist (ugh!), then to the post office, then to lunch with your bestie and finally to the POOL!!!” That’s not like a newsworthy day. In fact more than half of your day sounds horrible. And spare me the emo statuses that makes me think you’re about to end it. “Lonely… can anyone hear me? Does anyone care?” Get real. If you want attention go to a poetry slam or something. How about the people who write a status, accidentally omitting or misspelling a word, and then proceed to re-type it, generously leaving the original up for us to look at and laugh at. What a dumbass!
I had an accident on Facebook today and I’m still feeling pretty weird about it. Bored at work, I was innocently perusing my homepage when my mouse got tripped up at a sticky spot on my desk where my grapefruit had oozed earlier in the day. To my horror, I realized I had clicked the “Thumbs Up!” button on THE most random girl’s status, which happened to say, “Leaving on a jetplane! Thailand in 3 days!” There is absolutely no excuse for me to give a thumbs-up to that post. I haven’t talked to this girl since we awkwardly made up a Spice Girls dance at drama camp and then had a weird falling out. I’ve never been to Thailand and could really care less that she’s going. Flustered, I tried undoing my mistake, but the damage was done. I can imagine her face next time she logs in and sees that “Stephany likes your status!” She’ll probably think it’s so weird, and then wonder if I’m a lesbian now or something.
I feel like the “thumbs-up” is really personal. I’m not going to hit it unless I really feel passionate about what you’re saying. They should give you a second chance before you reach the point of no return: “Are you SURE you want to express your overwhelming support of this person’s status?” in which case I would have selected ‘ NO’, been thankful that a crisis was averted and moved on with my day.
I guess the case I’m making is that Facebook is sucking lately. It’s making me feel way more pervy and out of control than ever before. If this continues, I will have no choice but to check out match.com. It can’t be as sketchy as Facebook, right?
Ode to the [Almost] Mid-Twenties Crisis
Oh, 23, you are a cruel, cruel mistress. Not allowing us to be rid of the raw youth and freedom of college, and not letting us graduate to the polished and sophisticated life of an adult, you are the puberty bitch of the 20’s. It would be really great if someone could draw the proverbial line in the sand in certain situations.
Example: Is it weird to still be listening to rap music? I find myself in my business attire on my lunch break jamming to South Park Mexican. The collision of the two worlds is jarring. Maybe I should put on something safer, like Brad Paisley. Or maybe I could compromise with something appropriate yet still a little edgy like Sheryl Crow. You know what?? I’ll just turn off the music altogether and just be alone with my thoughts for a while.
Are beer bongs still allowed? Probably not on a work night, right? No, on work nights I drink wine like a lady. On the weekends though, I enjoy finding creative ways to drink out of unexpected items, including my sister’s cleavage. Again, that familiar internal struggle plagues. Is this awesome and hilarious, or slutty and disturbing? Help.
Meeting guys. In college, there were two types: the type that would hand you a watered-down lemon drop with sugar on the rim and a shit-eating grin on his face, or the type that wouldn’t even bother to ask and would shove a tequila shot and a lime into your hand, casually winking and saying, “This one’s for you, baby”. The second guy was automatically a stud, and that was about all you needed to know about him.
When you’re 23 you meet a guy, and the internal struggle beings. While you’re nailing it on the outside, batting your eyelashes and making witty jokes, the battle rages below the surface. Ughh why did you have to go to school in Ft. Collins? He’s drinking a White Russian—sexy or weird? Why are his hands wet?? He is so tall. Should have worn heels. I KNEW this wasn’t going to be a “flats night”, just drinking beers with the girls! Whatever, I’m getting drunk, I think I’m gonna do it! See you in the morning SUCKERS! What? You girls are getting a cab? Fuck it, I’m coming with. Yeah! Definitely call me!! (BYE FOREVER). And just like that, an entire night of hard work is thrown away because doing ski jumps off the couch and sleeping in your own bed sounds better than waking up hung over with a stranger in the Ballpark Lofts.
So what’s a 23 year-old gal to do? How do we make the graceful transition from college to adulthood? Answer: do seemingly adult things with underlying motives. Have “cocktails” at your place before the bars so you can listen to rap with your friends and make that ass clap in the comfort of your home without being judged. Create a “dinner club” which is really just a reason to eat cupcakes and get drunk on a Monday night. Join a softball team, which allows you to oogle the goods on the opposite team without ever having to decide whether or not to go home with them.
And when that strategy doesn’t work and your 23 years seem to be working against you, just remember: soon you’ll be 24 and just one year away from being a quarter of a century old. 23 doesn’t seem so bad now, does it?
Example: Is it weird to still be listening to rap music? I find myself in my business attire on my lunch break jamming to South Park Mexican. The collision of the two worlds is jarring. Maybe I should put on something safer, like Brad Paisley. Or maybe I could compromise with something appropriate yet still a little edgy like Sheryl Crow. You know what?? I’ll just turn off the music altogether and just be alone with my thoughts for a while.
Are beer bongs still allowed? Probably not on a work night, right? No, on work nights I drink wine like a lady. On the weekends though, I enjoy finding creative ways to drink out of unexpected items, including my sister’s cleavage. Again, that familiar internal struggle plagues. Is this awesome and hilarious, or slutty and disturbing? Help.
Meeting guys. In college, there were two types: the type that would hand you a watered-down lemon drop with sugar on the rim and a shit-eating grin on his face, or the type that wouldn’t even bother to ask and would shove a tequila shot and a lime into your hand, casually winking and saying, “This one’s for you, baby”. The second guy was automatically a stud, and that was about all you needed to know about him.
When you’re 23 you meet a guy, and the internal struggle beings. While you’re nailing it on the outside, batting your eyelashes and making witty jokes, the battle rages below the surface. Ughh why did you have to go to school in Ft. Collins? He’s drinking a White Russian—sexy or weird? Why are his hands wet?? He is so tall. Should have worn heels. I KNEW this wasn’t going to be a “flats night”, just drinking beers with the girls! Whatever, I’m getting drunk, I think I’m gonna do it! See you in the morning SUCKERS! What? You girls are getting a cab? Fuck it, I’m coming with. Yeah! Definitely call me!! (BYE FOREVER). And just like that, an entire night of hard work is thrown away because doing ski jumps off the couch and sleeping in your own bed sounds better than waking up hung over with a stranger in the Ballpark Lofts.
So what’s a 23 year-old gal to do? How do we make the graceful transition from college to adulthood? Answer: do seemingly adult things with underlying motives. Have “cocktails” at your place before the bars so you can listen to rap with your friends and make that ass clap in the comfort of your home without being judged. Create a “dinner club” which is really just a reason to eat cupcakes and get drunk on a Monday night. Join a softball team, which allows you to oogle the goods on the opposite team without ever having to decide whether or not to go home with them.
And when that strategy doesn’t work and your 23 years seem to be working against you, just remember: soon you’ll be 24 and just one year away from being a quarter of a century old. 23 doesn’t seem so bad now, does it?
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