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?
Monday, May 23, 2011
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?
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