So mostly I really like being independent. I have this whole life-rule-motto-thing where it’s really important to me that I never be prevented from doing anything I want or need to do just because I’m terminally solo. It was this vow, this creedo if you will, that lead me to carry a 50 lb television up a loft ladder by myself one night because I wanted to be able to watch tv in bed and just because my bed was in a loft, and just because the tv was heavy, and just because I was a single woman that was not going to stop me so BY GOD, I WAS GONNA HAVE A TV IN THAT LOFT! (as it turned out, I had tv and a wrenched shoulder and a big dent in my loft wall. And also Sunday mornings in bed with my NASCAR race and my sleepy kitty. All good.)
Where was I? Oh, right. I’m INDEPENDENT!
Even with my ironclad, bulletproof independence, there are still times when I really wish there was someone else that I could ask to do the stuff I hate to do, or don’t do well. For instance, I really hate to do the dishes, and would LOVE to be able to say “tonight it’s your turn to do the dishes, while I will eat bon bons and drink champagne and watch some girly show with fancy shoes or long, deep conversations about feelings. Tra la la and whee!” I would also say that sometimes about cooking, and sometimes about mowing the lawn. Except less tv shows about feelings about shoes and more NASCAR races. About feelings.
But what I REALLY wish I could let someone else be in charge of is the MONEY. Not that I can’t deal with it, but I just don’t like to. It forces me to be extremely responsible and level-headed and “good”. When really what I want is to BUY! COOL! THINGS! Sigh. Like when I got the first credit card ever, which I didn’t even really ask for and didn’t think I wanted, I was all about “use wisely. Don’t be stupid.” For like 5 seconds, and then it was all magic money that I didn’t even have to earn first, and the fabulous thingies that I could buy with the magic money.
I haven’t used a credit card for close to a decade. And I’m finally closing in on a zero-balance on that one that I did have. Blessed, debt-free nirvana.
I want a laptop. I really want a laptop. MAN do I want a laptop. But laptops are expensive. And good laptops are even more expensive, and then you talk about the nice software to go on the good laptop and now we’re talking serious money in the house that Jack built. Where as most of my money is extremely light-hearted, trivial, silly, even ridiculous! (thanks, Roget!!) But in October there is talk of a bonus at my work. Bonus, which I believe is French for “money that is not already earmarked for rent or gas or bills or anything.”
Money that I could maybe use to get a laptop.
Money that I really SHOULD use to get even closer to that credit card zero balance.
See, this would be the perfect time for me to have some other person who always manages the money and gives me an allowance and balances the wants, like laptops (and I-Phones, which I also want, and a new photo-printer and did I mention that I-Phones are super-cool?) with the shoulds, like credit card balances. (and financial aide, and a couple of kitty check-ups and WOW, did those lame college classes really cost that much? Gah!)
I won’t tell you how this gripping suspense ends. Suffice it to say that if you read a future post where I comment on how nice it is to write while lying in the sun you’ll know what happened. (and also that the weather here in Hippyville is strangely sunny for the fall or winter!)
Wish me strength.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Attention to detail
Lest everyone thinks that I have absolutely no idea how to flirt or jive or be with people without sticking my finger in my nose, I give to you this story from a recent Friday night:
I’m with a group of ladies from work – one of those things where the fact that we work together 40+ hours a week somehow mandates that we need to spend a few more hours together to make sure we’re super-excellent BFFs, and you can see how enthusiastic I am about the whole concept, but anyway – at this slightly snooty pizza joint. The joint isn’t so snooty as much as their ideas about pizza are snooty -- they make snooty, gourmet, fancy-pants pizzas. This is the kind of place that has a whole category of pizza called “chicken”, which includes things from the darkest corners of asia and exotic chili peppers. The place is HOPPING and everyone at our table is loud and obnoxious, as is the rule for any table of over 6 women.
All evening long there’s this big guy who looks like he MAYBE works there, but different from the others who OBVIOUSLY work there, and he’s patrolling the restaurant constantly, so I peg him for management. Every time Mr. Manager walks past our table he takes a good, long look. Eventually someone at our table makes comment, along the lines of “what is the deal with the big guy in the black shirt who keeps looking at our table?” I explain my management theory, but still the “why” becomes a topic of goofy, giggly girl conversation, and eventually our table has narrowed the reasons for his constant drive-bys to two:
He wants us to get the heck out of dodge
He’s thinks we’re a table of hotties
For everybody else the speculation is fun, but I'm not speculation-girl. I'm forward, direct, no-sense-of-shame girl, and so I offer to just ask the guy. And the next time he comes by I share our expert hypothesis (as well as the scientific method used to identify these options, which consisted of mixing estrogen, vodka and beer and shaking well) and ask him to select option A, option B or an option C of his devising.
He chooses option C, which is this super-safe combo platter of equal parts "hot chicks! Woohoo!" and "for the love of Pete, please free up my table!!!" Problem is we're waiting for a to-go pizza still baking, which is when he offers to give us our “to go” order for free if we’ll leave, which some people would be offended by but I’m all “hey, free pizza!” He doctors the check and we place the order and eagerly await free pizzas wafting out of the kitchen!
So lesson number one here: hang out with amusing people with no reasonable sense of personal boundaries = get free pizza!
Now, I mentioned that it was busy, right? OK, so we ORDER the pizza but it takes a stinkin’ long time to cook and in the meantime there we are, all occupying this table that the guy specifically wanted us to FREE UP. And sure enough, eventually he comes by and notices how not gone we are. (because we’re something like 85% not gone. So not the deal he made!) And he complains that we’re not doing our part (but he’s joking here) and that he’s gonna have to give us something else to make us vamoose (funny, funny guy still all jokish) and “next you’re gonna want a date!”
Um, what?
He keeps talking, I keep talking, many pithy, ironic and super-clever lines are bandied back and forth, and really it isn’t until 5 minutes later, when the pizza arrives and we depart, that I start thinking “hey, did that guy kind of ask me a little bit sort of out?” I've since decided that he didn't, but where as most people figure these things out as they're happening, it takes me (apparently) at least a WEEK. Apparently I have the reflexes of a stoned turtle! The response time of the Titanic making a U-ey! I'm slow and stupid!
Don't get the wrong idea: He wasn’t my type and I wasn’t looking for a date. But with this attention to detail I'll be married for three years before I realize some dude thinks I'm cool.
I’m with a group of ladies from work – one of those things where the fact that we work together 40+ hours a week somehow mandates that we need to spend a few more hours together to make sure we’re super-excellent BFFs, and you can see how enthusiastic I am about the whole concept, but anyway – at this slightly snooty pizza joint. The joint isn’t so snooty as much as their ideas about pizza are snooty -- they make snooty, gourmet, fancy-pants pizzas. This is the kind of place that has a whole category of pizza called “chicken”, which includes things from the darkest corners of asia and exotic chili peppers. The place is HOPPING and everyone at our table is loud and obnoxious, as is the rule for any table of over 6 women.
All evening long there’s this big guy who looks like he MAYBE works there, but different from the others who OBVIOUSLY work there, and he’s patrolling the restaurant constantly, so I peg him for management. Every time Mr. Manager walks past our table he takes a good, long look. Eventually someone at our table makes comment, along the lines of “what is the deal with the big guy in the black shirt who keeps looking at our table?” I explain my management theory, but still the “why” becomes a topic of goofy, giggly girl conversation, and eventually our table has narrowed the reasons for his constant drive-bys to two:
He wants us to get the heck out of dodge
He’s thinks we’re a table of hotties
For everybody else the speculation is fun, but I'm not speculation-girl. I'm forward, direct, no-sense-of-shame girl, and so I offer to just ask the guy. And the next time he comes by I share our expert hypothesis (as well as the scientific method used to identify these options, which consisted of mixing estrogen, vodka and beer and shaking well) and ask him to select option A, option B or an option C of his devising.
He chooses option C, which is this super-safe combo platter of equal parts "hot chicks! Woohoo!" and "for the love of Pete, please free up my table!!!" Problem is we're waiting for a to-go pizza still baking, which is when he offers to give us our “to go” order for free if we’ll leave, which some people would be offended by but I’m all “hey, free pizza!” He doctors the check and we place the order and eagerly await free pizzas wafting out of the kitchen!
So lesson number one here: hang out with amusing people with no reasonable sense of personal boundaries = get free pizza!
Now, I mentioned that it was busy, right? OK, so we ORDER the pizza but it takes a stinkin’ long time to cook and in the meantime there we are, all occupying this table that the guy specifically wanted us to FREE UP. And sure enough, eventually he comes by and notices how not gone we are. (because we’re something like 85% not gone. So not the deal he made!) And he complains that we’re not doing our part (but he’s joking here) and that he’s gonna have to give us something else to make us vamoose (funny, funny guy still all jokish) and “next you’re gonna want a date!”
Um, what?
He keeps talking, I keep talking, many pithy, ironic and super-clever lines are bandied back and forth, and really it isn’t until 5 minutes later, when the pizza arrives and we depart, that I start thinking “hey, did that guy kind of ask me a little bit sort of out?” I've since decided that he didn't, but where as most people figure these things out as they're happening, it takes me (apparently) at least a WEEK. Apparently I have the reflexes of a stoned turtle! The response time of the Titanic making a U-ey! I'm slow and stupid!
Don't get the wrong idea: He wasn’t my type and I wasn’t looking for a date. But with this attention to detail I'll be married for three years before I realize some dude thinks I'm cool.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Vindication!
I KNEW it! Call me lazy, call me slacker, call me narcoleptic! But I totally knew that all the naps I am always all-the-time takin' were noble, healthy, nay even ORGANIC and good for me! And LO, see how the good people of the Boston Globe (a real paper written by real journalists and read by people who went to real colleges!) broke down the ins and outs and various facets of that most glorious of health regimens: THE NAP!
Some things I learned from the Boston Globe Smarty-smarty-smartsmarts? That I'm an owl, not a lark. and this is good, because I'm pretty sure that the lark is the dorkiest of the birds. Seriously -- I think they have little bird pocket protectors and play lark Dungeons and Dragons and the like. Whereas owls are stinkin' cool; they fly the coolest cars and smoke and swear birdy curses.
Also, I'm NOT afternoon-stupid! No, it turns out that my days have been plagued, nay MOCKED, by an afternoon quiescent phase. A PHASE, people! How could someone combat that? Answer: nap.
My nap of choice? I rock that 4th image where you're lying on your face, naked, with your ass lovingly covered by some kind of blanky. That's how I roll. (and also between 60 and 90 minutes of hardcore, quality nap-action. and also when I nap I'm devoid of hue. But hey, aren't we all?) But let's not take anything away from Mr. Clean down there, with the bare feet and the headphones, huggin' his security pillow. That is a guy I could learn to love: a man who naps unabashedly. Unashamedly. Puts his all and his everything into every nap.
So the next time you fall asleep on your desk at work, your nose covered with "sign here" tags and your screen full of nothing but g's, g's, g's, don't get down on yourself! You're just overdue for that power-nap, people! Time to find a couch! A sofa! A loveseat! and GET our NAP on, my people!!
Some things I learned from the Boston Globe Smarty-smarty-smartsmarts? That I'm an owl, not a lark. and this is good, because I'm pretty sure that the lark is the dorkiest of the birds. Seriously -- I think they have little bird pocket protectors and play lark Dungeons and Dragons and the like. Whereas owls are stinkin' cool; they fly the coolest cars and smoke and swear birdy curses.
Also, I'm NOT afternoon-stupid! No, it turns out that my days have been plagued, nay MOCKED, by an afternoon quiescent phase. A PHASE, people! How could someone combat that? Answer: nap.
My nap of choice? I rock that 4th image where you're lying on your face, naked, with your ass lovingly covered by some kind of blanky. That's how I roll. (and also between 60 and 90 minutes of hardcore, quality nap-action. and also when I nap I'm devoid of hue. But hey, aren't we all?) But let's not take anything away from Mr. Clean down there, with the bare feet and the headphones, huggin' his security pillow. That is a guy I could learn to love: a man who naps unabashedly. Unashamedly. Puts his all and his everything into every nap.
So the next time you fall asleep on your desk at work, your nose covered with "sign here" tags and your screen full of nothing but g's, g's, g's, don't get down on yourself! You're just overdue for that power-nap, people! Time to find a couch! A sofa! A loveseat! and GET our NAP on, my people!!
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Wait, there's one in the morning AND in the evening?
Amidst the various hecticities (is so, is so, is totally so a word!) of the last few weeks there was a 42-hour window where I had to work three shifts: one from 7ish(am) to 3ish(pm), then one from 10ish(pm) to 7ish(am) and then one from 3ish(pm) to midnightish(am? Man, that one always confuses me).
Understand that I still believe, despite recent evidence otherwise, that I’m 17 years old and can work for 24 hours in a row without even getting tired and only need 4 hours of sleep to be fresh as a daisy and other stupid, untrue things. And as such, I did this schedule to myself. (also I just couldn’t bear to do this to anyone else. Not since I was so young and spry and all.)
ANYWAY! I worked the first shift that morning and all was fine. I went home by way of a soccer game (watching, not playing) and some Jamba Juice (Razzmatazz, why must you tempt me so with your berry siren song?) and had about 4 hours to sleep before I had to be back for shift #2. And I’m thinking “no problem! I feed kitties, pack my bag of stuff for tonight, get up with 30 minutes for dinner and I’m there in no time!” (clearly I should also have been thinking “and later I’ll meet Debs and Scooter down on the Quad for coffee and a gab fest about our classes and how much Professor Smithers sucks with all the homework, and man am I lucky I’m so very, very young.”) I fed kitties and packed bag and flopped down on the couch for 4 hours of quality nap-sleep.
And I marveled at how bright the sun was outside and how very middle-of-the-afternoon it felt, and how not at all sleepy I was.
So I’m lying there watching tv and stressing that I’m not sleeping and flippy-flopping with not sleeping and realizing that if I were as spry as I think I am I wouldn’t even know enough to stress about not sleeping and thinking “why do I have to have a ‘coming-to-grips-with-my-maturity’ moment NOW???” But somewhere in there I DID fall asleep. A hard sleep. A rock-hard sleep. Sleep of the damned and all.
And then I woke up, and the morning was bright and crisp. And also it was the morning. The clocks all mocked me with their “6:30”ness and I FREAKED OUT BECAUSE I HAD SLEPT COMPLETELY THROUGH THE WHOLE OVERNIGHT SHIFT AAAAUUUUGGGHHH!!!! Now, properly inspired by the panic of the completely screwed, I grabbed my purse and shoes and was in the car and out of the driveway in about .2 seconds.
I RACE out to the location for these funky shifts at about “bat-out-of-hell” times 10. (Oh no, not conveniently close enough to be biked quickly, and therefore driven even more quickly. No, these shifts are out at “far away pavilion land”, which takes 15-20 min. to even drive there. Fabulous.) I’m all over my phone calling the managers who should be managing the thing that I didn’t come and do, and nobody is answering their damned phones! Exactly why do we have cell phones if not to answer them any time I call and need them? Plus, might I add, FREAKING OUT!!!
Finally I get a manager type and I explain my whole missing of my shift and the tremendous badness of same. And she is fine with it. She doesn’t even seem to understand what the heck I’m talking about. In fact, the tone of voice smacks of “oh darn, Femtastic has finally jumped the crazy shark of no saneness. Had to happen eventually.” So frustrated am I by her distinct lack of getting it that I hang up pretty quickly and start the turn-off to the last 5 minutes of the drive and hey, did my phone say PM?
Did my phone say that it’s 6:30PM?
Gosh, 6:30AM and 6:30PM sure do look similar this time of year! Except that would definitely be what we like to call “West” that the sun is melting down into.
CUH-RAP.
…I have no idea why I jumped immediately to 6:30AM. It never for even one second occurred to me that it could be only about 40 minutes after I’d fallen asleep. I knew, 100% knew, that it was the morning and no amount of it actually being the evening could slow me down!
So I turned the car around and drove the reverse route back home, at a much more reasonable “I am such a complete moron” pace. Of course now there’s enough adrenaline rushing through my system to reanimate Uma Thurman, so even though it’s 7PM when I get home it’s at least 8PM before my lids dip even a smidge. And that shift from 10ish to 7ish was SO MUCH LONGER than I’d hoped.
Lesson learned: I need AM/PMs on all my clocks. Or to work overnight less. (“or a husband” says a friend. Do they help with this stuff?)
Understand that I still believe, despite recent evidence otherwise, that I’m 17 years old and can work for 24 hours in a row without even getting tired and only need 4 hours of sleep to be fresh as a daisy and other stupid, untrue things. And as such, I did this schedule to myself. (also I just couldn’t bear to do this to anyone else. Not since I was so young and spry and all.)
ANYWAY! I worked the first shift that morning and all was fine. I went home by way of a soccer game (watching, not playing) and some Jamba Juice (Razzmatazz, why must you tempt me so with your berry siren song?) and had about 4 hours to sleep before I had to be back for shift #2. And I’m thinking “no problem! I feed kitties, pack my bag of stuff for tonight, get up with 30 minutes for dinner and I’m there in no time!” (clearly I should also have been thinking “and later I’ll meet Debs and Scooter down on the Quad for coffee and a gab fest about our classes and how much Professor Smithers sucks with all the homework, and man am I lucky I’m so very, very young.”) I fed kitties and packed bag and flopped down on the couch for 4 hours of quality nap-sleep.
And I marveled at how bright the sun was outside and how very middle-of-the-afternoon it felt, and how not at all sleepy I was.
So I’m lying there watching tv and stressing that I’m not sleeping and flippy-flopping with not sleeping and realizing that if I were as spry as I think I am I wouldn’t even know enough to stress about not sleeping and thinking “why do I have to have a ‘coming-to-grips-with-my-maturity’ moment NOW???” But somewhere in there I DID fall asleep. A hard sleep. A rock-hard sleep. Sleep of the damned and all.
And then I woke up, and the morning was bright and crisp. And also it was the morning. The clocks all mocked me with their “6:30”ness and I FREAKED OUT BECAUSE I HAD SLEPT COMPLETELY THROUGH THE WHOLE OVERNIGHT SHIFT AAAAUUUUGGGHHH!!!! Now, properly inspired by the panic of the completely screwed, I grabbed my purse and shoes and was in the car and out of the driveway in about .2 seconds.
I RACE out to the location for these funky shifts at about “bat-out-of-hell” times 10. (Oh no, not conveniently close enough to be biked quickly, and therefore driven even more quickly. No, these shifts are out at “far away pavilion land”, which takes 15-20 min. to even drive there. Fabulous.) I’m all over my phone calling the managers who should be managing the thing that I didn’t come and do, and nobody is answering their damned phones! Exactly why do we have cell phones if not to answer them any time I call and need them? Plus, might I add, FREAKING OUT!!!
Finally I get a manager type and I explain my whole missing of my shift and the tremendous badness of same. And she is fine with it. She doesn’t even seem to understand what the heck I’m talking about. In fact, the tone of voice smacks of “oh darn, Femtastic has finally jumped the crazy shark of no saneness. Had to happen eventually.” So frustrated am I by her distinct lack of getting it that I hang up pretty quickly and start the turn-off to the last 5 minutes of the drive and hey, did my phone say PM?
Did my phone say that it’s 6:30PM?
Gosh, 6:30AM and 6:30PM sure do look similar this time of year! Except that would definitely be what we like to call “West” that the sun is melting down into.
CUH-RAP.
…I have no idea why I jumped immediately to 6:30AM. It never for even one second occurred to me that it could be only about 40 minutes after I’d fallen asleep. I knew, 100% knew, that it was the morning and no amount of it actually being the evening could slow me down!
So I turned the car around and drove the reverse route back home, at a much more reasonable “I am such a complete moron” pace. Of course now there’s enough adrenaline rushing through my system to reanimate Uma Thurman, so even though it’s 7PM when I get home it’s at least 8PM before my lids dip even a smidge. And that shift from 10ish to 7ish was SO MUCH LONGER than I’d hoped.
Lesson learned: I need AM/PMs on all my clocks. Or to work overnight less. (“or a husband” says a friend. Do they help with this stuff?)
Monday, September 22, 2008
Potty Poetry, Volume 1
I have a magnetic poetry kit, have had for years. Just like most folks, when I first got the kit I put it on my fridge. I made 2 or 3 pithy, clever phrases and then never composed while in my kitchen ever again.
Then one year I had a burst of inspiration. I picked up a magnetic white board from Ikea and hung it beside my toilet. Ever since that day, my magnetic poetry kit has been on FIRE!
I bring to you now the current genius items of poetic majesty on my magnetic potty poetry kit, for your poetic and scatological enjoyment:
Then one year I had a burst of inspiration. I picked up a magnetic white board from Ikea and hung it beside my toilet. Ever since that day, my magnetic poetry kit has been on FIRE!
I bring to you now the current genius items of poetic majesty on my magnetic potty poetry kit, for your poetic and scatological enjoyment:
- Essential beauty needs to incubate
- Never smear power with luscious lather
- The fluff crusher produces a garden of enormous black men
- Mad visions of a Delirious egg diamond
- Hee, hee, panties
- She can picture me one honey of a boy
- I love the maybes & lies
- My dinosaur suit is but a sad shadow
- These sausages are not true meats
- You want purple juice, I want white milk
- Chocolate is an elaborate apparatus for delicate arms
Sunday, September 21, 2008
An Open Letter to Whomever Is Left...
Hi. My name is Femtastic. Used to be I kept a blog and blogged about things and stuff. But then I had this job and it was hectic. And then it was super-hectic. And then it was “holy crap, I got me no time for anything except the job” hectic.
But lo, I am Free-ed! I am back to the bloggy goodness of my life, because the hecticity of the job (is too a word) has finally calmed down. And, might I add, “Whew!” So sorry for the distinct nothingness and also the pervasive quiet and lack of words and such.
To make up for this I have a goal for this week: to blog every day. This is my goal. It is a GOOD goal. It is a SOLID goal. It is a NOBLE goal.
It is also probably an impossible goal. Because TV comes back this week, and tap dancing also returns. And there are plans on some nights with friends and family members who also kind of forgot I existed because I was tremendously not around. And also sometimes I get sleepy.
But it is the goal that I promise to you, the 6.3 people who foolishly keep checking back to see if I’m around, to do my best to achieve.
Wish me luck, my friends.
(PS. You look great! Have you changed your hair or lost weight or something? How are the spouse and kids? Are you still in that book club/cooking class/Young Republicans Coffee Clatch? Never stop being you. Kiss Kiss and some huggies.)
But lo, I am Free-ed! I am back to the bloggy goodness of my life, because the hecticity of the job (is too a word) has finally calmed down. And, might I add, “Whew!” So sorry for the distinct nothingness and also the pervasive quiet and lack of words and such.
To make up for this I have a goal for this week: to blog every day. This is my goal. It is a GOOD goal. It is a SOLID goal. It is a NOBLE goal.
It is also probably an impossible goal. Because TV comes back this week, and tap dancing also returns. And there are plans on some nights with friends and family members who also kind of forgot I existed because I was tremendously not around. And also sometimes I get sleepy.
But it is the goal that I promise to you, the 6.3 people who foolishly keep checking back to see if I’m around, to do my best to achieve.
Wish me luck, my friends.
(PS. You look great! Have you changed your hair or lost weight or something? How are the spouse and kids? Are you still in that book club/cooking class/Young Republicans Coffee Clatch? Never stop being you. Kiss Kiss and some huggies.)
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Battle of the Bulge, Part Three – Bad Days = Bad Food
You know what happens when you decide to watch what you eat? Food begins to drop from the sky. Bad food. EVIL food. Soulless food with a chocolaty coating and creamy, black filling.
I’m trying to be good! I mean, not last week of course. The big push last week was to remove the bad foods from the house. It was with this noble goal in mind that I ate fish sticks, tater tots, frozen waffles, peanut butter cookies and terrible, terrible Cap’n Crunch. (oh you devilish seaman, you, with your swarthy, sugary mustache and your berries of tempting crunchitude…) And I was rewarded for my noble deeds! Rewarded Sunday night when I stepped on that scale, STEPPED ON IT WITH PRIDE! Stepped up and said to it “do your worst, Scale!” And it replied “you gained two pounds, Fat-Ass. Step off before you damage my insides.”
Still, I’d done the hard work and now it’s time to dedicate myself to the good foods. The Fish! The Veggies! The foods called “Lean” and “Light” and “of COURSE there’s no flavor here! You want to lose weight, don’t you? Then shut it!” I did away with all the Pockets that are Hot, and turned to the Pockets that are LEAN! Surely they would still be a tasty way to take care of the occasional lunch, right? And just as I’d hoped, they were fine! Oh sure, the sauce puts one in mind of light-orange milk and the crust is most definitely made from mulch and manila folders. But other than that? Fine.
But things at my work are difficult right now. Nay, some might even call it craptastic, with the constant stress and too much to do and “Hey, who put this flaming sack of poop on my chair???” And, like many organizations, we combat the work stress with FOOOOOOOD! At every turn the universe jumps out and attacks me with the savory bombs of temptation! Scrumptious bullets of sweet decadence! Sneaky Snack Attacks! Make it STOP! Just yesterday I fought my way through the day and was doing ok. But I ended up the day at a very angry work meeting, capped off with a lovely plate of rage cookies. Who can say no to sweet little rage cookies, shaped like angels and hearts, but brought forth only to stuff the mouths of the rageful meeting participants? Its just not fair.
And today! Today! Today I didn’t even take a lunch, so busy with crazy was the day, and I thought (in an effort to sketch a lovely, silver lining on a day too busy for lunch) “hey, at least this should help me with my desire to be less of a fatty-fatty-fat-fat!” And like THAT boxes of free pizza and bags of chips and plates of home-baked, love-filled desserty things sprang forth from the ether! Swarmed my desk! Wedged themselves down my helpless mouth! Oh sure, I nommed! I nommed like nobody’s BUSINESS! But still, what is with the non-stop buffet from Temptation Island, people?
Tomorrow my plan is to have a simple P, B & J for lunch. As a result, I’m sure I will receive a gross of deep-fried Twinkies in the mail.
I’m trying to be good! I mean, not last week of course. The big push last week was to remove the bad foods from the house. It was with this noble goal in mind that I ate fish sticks, tater tots, frozen waffles, peanut butter cookies and terrible, terrible Cap’n Crunch. (oh you devilish seaman, you, with your swarthy, sugary mustache and your berries of tempting crunchitude…) And I was rewarded for my noble deeds! Rewarded Sunday night when I stepped on that scale, STEPPED ON IT WITH PRIDE! Stepped up and said to it “do your worst, Scale!” And it replied “you gained two pounds, Fat-Ass. Step off before you damage my insides.”
Still, I’d done the hard work and now it’s time to dedicate myself to the good foods. The Fish! The Veggies! The foods called “Lean” and “Light” and “of COURSE there’s no flavor here! You want to lose weight, don’t you? Then shut it!” I did away with all the Pockets that are Hot, and turned to the Pockets that are LEAN! Surely they would still be a tasty way to take care of the occasional lunch, right? And just as I’d hoped, they were fine! Oh sure, the sauce puts one in mind of light-orange milk and the crust is most definitely made from mulch and manila folders. But other than that? Fine.
But things at my work are difficult right now. Nay, some might even call it craptastic, with the constant stress and too much to do and “Hey, who put this flaming sack of poop on my chair???” And, like many organizations, we combat the work stress with FOOOOOOOD! At every turn the universe jumps out and attacks me with the savory bombs of temptation! Scrumptious bullets of sweet decadence! Sneaky Snack Attacks! Make it STOP! Just yesterday I fought my way through the day and was doing ok. But I ended up the day at a very angry work meeting, capped off with a lovely plate of rage cookies. Who can say no to sweet little rage cookies, shaped like angels and hearts, but brought forth only to stuff the mouths of the rageful meeting participants? Its just not fair.
And today! Today! Today I didn’t even take a lunch, so busy with crazy was the day, and I thought (in an effort to sketch a lovely, silver lining on a day too busy for lunch) “hey, at least this should help me with my desire to be less of a fatty-fatty-fat-fat!” And like THAT boxes of free pizza and bags of chips and plates of home-baked, love-filled desserty things sprang forth from the ether! Swarmed my desk! Wedged themselves down my helpless mouth! Oh sure, I nommed! I nommed like nobody’s BUSINESS! But still, what is with the non-stop buffet from Temptation Island, people?
Tomorrow my plan is to have a simple P, B & J for lunch. As a result, I’m sure I will receive a gross of deep-fried Twinkies in the mail.
Monday, September 01, 2008
Battle of the Bulge. Part Two - Suck it Billy Jean
Now that we’ve covered whence we’ve placed the finish line, let’s talk about my two prongs of racing-winning success: finding some way to get some exercise in my big, stupid life AND trying to moderate my intake of food without starving or getting very, very blue. And cranky.
OK, so not sure if I mentioned this or not, but I super-hate to exercise. However I do NOT hate to get some exercise if it’s a great big accident, say as a side effect of doing something fun. Remember tap dancing class? FUN! Also the biking to work and back? (sometimes damp but still mostly) FUN! These are some of the keys to my most certain and triumphant success.
Tap class starts back up next week. This is tappy, sweaty exercise that I most definitely love to do. And even though it’s getting rainy, and presently I just cannot find my rain pants, and also I keep having to go to these meetings out at the very far away new hospital which is too far for biking and also I really need to figure out some way to wear a helmet, STILL I will continue to be a bike-commuting girl. Including, whenever I can, doing a scenic route home that takes me about 30 minutes and be even more exercisy.
On top of those existing exercise super-genius plans I’ve got two more. The first? Tennis! Or, more accurately, “chasing yellow, fuzzy balls around a tennis court while explaining what it was that happened that last time which made it totally impossible for me to hit the ball even though it was right where I was. And I was swinging every which way. And did I mention that the sun was in my eyes?”
My Dad and I decided to invest in uber-cheap used tennis rackets (which came with fancy, zippy covers with shoulder straps that make us look like we’re totally good at this! Like the dudes that bring their own cue to the pool hall! Not at ALL dorky or lame!!!) and we’ve been going to one of the multiple free, common-use neighborhood tennis courts that surround my house one night a week. We go about 10pm (for we require an entire day of walking around and talking and just existing in the universe as our warm-up before we risk actual exercise, and also there’s generally nobody else there at that time.)
Now counting the two times that he and I have gone over the last two weeks I’ve only been playing tennis for approximately (wait, let me check this to be sure… yep, that’s what I thought) two weeks. So you can imagine how truly fabulous I am. Why there was one time last week where I served a ball and he hit it back to me! (yes!) Not only that, but I was feeling all kicky myself so I hit the ball back to HIM! (seriously!) Of course by then we were both too exhausted and amazed with ourselves to continue standing, and we did that traditional lying down on the court and wheezing thing that you always see on the Masters or the World Series or whatever that tennis championship thing is called. Which, by the way, I’ll surely be winning next year.
But the REAL key to my exercise success with the balls and rackets and very, very bright lights at 10 at night is the dozen or so times each week that I accidentally hit the ball pretty much right up in the air, way over the stupid fence that surrounds the courts (and which, by the way, is about 11 feet too short!) This gives me the opportunity to run to the single door in or out of the courts (sure, the fence is too small, but they sure didn’t waste any fencing on copious doors in or out!) and then roam around in the neighborhood around the court looking for the runaway ball. My rule has been that I have to run to get the ball and run back. Or at least run our to get it. Or at least run to the door. Or do that little hoppy thing when I first head off to get it that makes it look like I’m about to run, but then I don’t. or at least say the words ‘I’ll run and get it” when I hit it over, even though my Dad wasn’t for even a second planning to go get it. I’m pretty sure that saying the word “run” does burn more calories than any other word.
My other secret exercise weapon? Hot Hoola Hoop Action. I can say no more at this time.
OK, so not sure if I mentioned this or not, but I super-hate to exercise. However I do NOT hate to get some exercise if it’s a great big accident, say as a side effect of doing something fun. Remember tap dancing class? FUN! Also the biking to work and back? (sometimes damp but still mostly) FUN! These are some of the keys to my most certain and triumphant success.
Tap class starts back up next week. This is tappy, sweaty exercise that I most definitely love to do. And even though it’s getting rainy, and presently I just cannot find my rain pants, and also I keep having to go to these meetings out at the very far away new hospital which is too far for biking and also I really need to figure out some way to wear a helmet, STILL I will continue to be a bike-commuting girl. Including, whenever I can, doing a scenic route home that takes me about 30 minutes and be even more exercisy.
On top of those existing exercise super-genius plans I’ve got two more. The first? Tennis! Or, more accurately, “chasing yellow, fuzzy balls around a tennis court while explaining what it was that happened that last time which made it totally impossible for me to hit the ball even though it was right where I was. And I was swinging every which way. And did I mention that the sun was in my eyes?”
My Dad and I decided to invest in uber-cheap used tennis rackets (which came with fancy, zippy covers with shoulder straps that make us look like we’re totally good at this! Like the dudes that bring their own cue to the pool hall! Not at ALL dorky or lame!!!) and we’ve been going to one of the multiple free, common-use neighborhood tennis courts that surround my house one night a week. We go about 10pm (for we require an entire day of walking around and talking and just existing in the universe as our warm-up before we risk actual exercise, and also there’s generally nobody else there at that time.)
Now counting the two times that he and I have gone over the last two weeks I’ve only been playing tennis for approximately (wait, let me check this to be sure… yep, that’s what I thought) two weeks. So you can imagine how truly fabulous I am. Why there was one time last week where I served a ball and he hit it back to me! (yes!) Not only that, but I was feeling all kicky myself so I hit the ball back to HIM! (seriously!) Of course by then we were both too exhausted and amazed with ourselves to continue standing, and we did that traditional lying down on the court and wheezing thing that you always see on the Masters or the World Series or whatever that tennis championship thing is called. Which, by the way, I’ll surely be winning next year.
But the REAL key to my exercise success with the balls and rackets and very, very bright lights at 10 at night is the dozen or so times each week that I accidentally hit the ball pretty much right up in the air, way over the stupid fence that surrounds the courts (and which, by the way, is about 11 feet too short!) This gives me the opportunity to run to the single door in or out of the courts (sure, the fence is too small, but they sure didn’t waste any fencing on copious doors in or out!) and then roam around in the neighborhood around the court looking for the runaway ball. My rule has been that I have to run to get the ball and run back. Or at least run our to get it. Or at least run to the door. Or do that little hoppy thing when I first head off to get it that makes it look like I’m about to run, but then I don’t. or at least say the words ‘I’ll run and get it” when I hit it over, even though my Dad wasn’t for even a second planning to go get it. I’m pretty sure that saying the word “run” does burn more calories than any other word.
My other secret exercise weapon? Hot Hoola Hoop Action. I can say no more at this time.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Battle of the Bulge, part one - the Goal.
OK, so this may be an unpopular, unsubstantiated and possibly ludicrous concept, but I’m here to tell it: big, chunky girls don’t get the lovin. They just don’t. And by “they” I am really saying “we” because people, I am currently both big and also inordinately chunky.
Unfortunately I also have some handicaps that make it tough to combat this situation. For instance, I really hate to exercise. Hate it so much that I think my hatred actually does burn calories. Also, I really love to eat food, and especially those things a) deep fried, b) covered in chocolate or c) made entirely of fat. God bless the inventor of the deep fried Snickers bar – I think I love you the most, Scarecrow!
(gurgle, gurgle, drooly love of deep fried Snickers bar…) Sorry, where was I?
Oh, right. Lovin’.
So The Queen is a motivated type. She does things like run marathons and try to push a person through her cooch for something like 62 hours. Give her a challenge and watch her CONQUER. A year ago she had a baby, which lead to some surplus or bonus bodyness, some of which is still hanging around. When she heard that I sometimes sit on my couch and run through my head all the things that my poochy tummy is larger than (loaf of bread, copy of Moby Dick, child’s bowling ball…) she was struck by motivated genius and she came up with our Battle of the Bulge.
The first version of the Battle of the Bulge was just us competing for who could spend more time each day doing something exercisey. Like for me it was biking in to the office twice a day or taking walks or lying on the grass imagining what I could look like skinny. That burns more pounds than you’d guess. For her it was things like going for a run at the break of dawn or taking the kids to the park and chasing them around for an hour. Probably not once did she do any cardio-imagining. She’s hard-core.
But now we’re kicking it up a notch. And this next step required that I do something that I NEVER, EVER DO. This silver-tongued devil, this Svengali, she talked me into STEPPING ON A SCALE! ONE THAT TELLS YOU HOW MUCH YOU ACTUALLY WEIGH! OH, THE HUMANITY!!! As a rule I never step on scales and, in fact, I have not seen/known my own weight for over a decade, on account of I think people completely obsess about The Number. The Number. The Damn Number! But The Queen had a plan, and the plan really did demand a benchmark. And that benchmark really needed to be our terrible, terrible weight. Sigh. So weigh me she did, and she looked at the number and wrote it down and I averted my eyes and stuck my fingers in my ears and went “La, la, la, la, I can’t HEAR you, can’t HEAR you!” (just in case, when she saw the actual number, she spontaneously let loose with a “Great Googly-Moogly, I didn’t even know the scale WENT that high!”)
So between now and the end of November she and I are going to do whatever it is we’re going to do and see which of us can lose more weight. We’ll weigh each week (and by “we’ll weight” I really mean “I’ll get back on her big, dumb scale and she’ll write down a number”) and the winner will get some kind of CASH PRIZE. If I’m the big winner I’ll be spending that money on cases of deep-friend Snickers bars. And a dainty little chocolate covered, deep fried trophy. Whee!
Unfortunately I also have some handicaps that make it tough to combat this situation. For instance, I really hate to exercise. Hate it so much that I think my hatred actually does burn calories. Also, I really love to eat food, and especially those things a) deep fried, b) covered in chocolate or c) made entirely of fat. God bless the inventor of the deep fried Snickers bar – I think I love you the most, Scarecrow!
(gurgle, gurgle, drooly love of deep fried Snickers bar…) Sorry, where was I?
Oh, right. Lovin’.
So The Queen is a motivated type. She does things like run marathons and try to push a person through her cooch for something like 62 hours. Give her a challenge and watch her CONQUER. A year ago she had a baby, which lead to some surplus or bonus bodyness, some of which is still hanging around. When she heard that I sometimes sit on my couch and run through my head all the things that my poochy tummy is larger than (loaf of bread, copy of Moby Dick, child’s bowling ball…) she was struck by motivated genius and she came up with our Battle of the Bulge.
The first version of the Battle of the Bulge was just us competing for who could spend more time each day doing something exercisey. Like for me it was biking in to the office twice a day or taking walks or lying on the grass imagining what I could look like skinny. That burns more pounds than you’d guess. For her it was things like going for a run at the break of dawn or taking the kids to the park and chasing them around for an hour. Probably not once did she do any cardio-imagining. She’s hard-core.
But now we’re kicking it up a notch. And this next step required that I do something that I NEVER, EVER DO. This silver-tongued devil, this Svengali, she talked me into STEPPING ON A SCALE! ONE THAT TELLS YOU HOW MUCH YOU ACTUALLY WEIGH! OH, THE HUMANITY!!! As a rule I never step on scales and, in fact, I have not seen/known my own weight for over a decade, on account of I think people completely obsess about The Number. The Number. The Damn Number! But The Queen had a plan, and the plan really did demand a benchmark. And that benchmark really needed to be our terrible, terrible weight. Sigh. So weigh me she did, and she looked at the number and wrote it down and I averted my eyes and stuck my fingers in my ears and went “La, la, la, la, I can’t HEAR you, can’t HEAR you!” (just in case, when she saw the actual number, she spontaneously let loose with a “Great Googly-Moogly, I didn’t even know the scale WENT that high!”)
So between now and the end of November she and I are going to do whatever it is we’re going to do and see which of us can lose more weight. We’ll weigh each week (and by “we’ll weight” I really mean “I’ll get back on her big, dumb scale and she’ll write down a number”) and the winner will get some kind of CASH PRIZE. If I’m the big winner I’ll be spending that money on cases of deep-friend Snickers bars. And a dainty little chocolate covered, deep fried trophy. Whee!
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Big Fail, part 2 -- the Punishment
Here, for your reading enjoyment, is the email conversation with The Queen which followed the blog post about my epic fail with Big City Guy. It started with my assertion that the Queen would never have let me leave that room w/out at least a sweaty-palmed handshake and a “Dude, you were super!”, to which she left a comment.
…I ask you, oh best beloveds of the Internets Super-Highway of information, do you think I need a penalty for my epic fails? If so, what KIND of penalty? I’ll get the ball rolling: what about I am forced to eat a heaping bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream every time? THAT would sure show me! Your thoughts please?
Q: So true! Consider yourself tskd, tskd!
F: I even considered going back on Saturday night for the last performance, and subsequent last night reception, but I was so pooped from wandering around the county fair and I'm sure I looked like deep-fried ass, so I didn't. And thus my one and only chance for love was forever lost. I'll be headed to humane society to adopt my required additional 35 cats this weekend. Sigh.
Q: I think we should come up with some sort of penalty for you when you are in these situations and you don't take advantage of them. yeah, I'm liking that idea...
F: What KIND of penalty? Isn't letting the love of my life get away enough of a penalty? (notice the overly dramatic words here -- I'm definitely appealing to your romantic dime novels side.)
Q: Well apparently not since you let him get away without so much as a "hellomynameisfemtasticIloveyou."
…I ask you, oh best beloveds of the Internets Super-Highway of information, do you think I need a penalty for my epic fails? If so, what KIND of penalty? I’ll get the ball rolling: what about I am forced to eat a heaping bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream every time? THAT would sure show me! Your thoughts please?
Friday, August 22, 2008
too busy for ANYTHING.
Well, it’s official. I’m officially old. And I hate it, not because I’m opposed to being old or old people or that people get old, but because it’s limiting things that used to be limitless. Like my energy, and my time and my ability to do things with little or no sleep. Somewhere along the line I’ve become this weak, sad, sleep-needing person! (note: if you have always been a sleep-needing person I apologize for characterizing you as weak or sad. I’m just not used to it. And it’s making me cranky. I’m sure you’re wonderful and strong and I promise to bring to you the next pickle jar I cannot open…)
Background info: I work for a Medical Group (which is basically a big pile of doctors who have office hours and see patients for that which ails them). This Medical Group is part of a larger healthcare organization which also manages our sister/neighbor/good friend hospital (which is basically a bigger pile of doctors who have shifts and see anybody who crosses their medical path for that which SERIOUSLY ails them). The hospital just moved into a newer, bigger, super-StarTrekish-hightech building and it was a BIG DEAL in Hippyville! And because we’re related anyone who works for the Medical Group was helping out with the big move.
OK, so last week was the actual move and the first week in the new, fancy digs. And I have to tell you, there are so many cool things about this new building! Twice before I’ve started to write a post waxing geeksodic (it’s a word now – tell your friends) about all the cool things! Like for instance there are these big screens which can tell you where any patient is in the whole hospital based on their ID badges and sensors in the ceilings! I want to say “computer, where is ensign LaForge?” so it can tell me that he’s left the ship and is on the planet’s surface. Also we have NEUMATIC TUBES! Tubes that run for MILES all over the building and even to a near-by LAB BUILDING, running under the streets magically! Tubes in which you can put papers or lab samples or gloves or whatever you want and hit “send” and they’ll shoot away, popping up as if by magic in another place with a satisfy “Hshhhhh-THUNK!” Really, its just a great big pile of very cool toys that I wish I could play with.
In an effort to be helpful to the sister hospital I volunteered for a “phone coaching” shift last Tuesday from 6pm to 6am. Yes, that’s a 12-hour shift. Yes, that’s an overnight shift. The idea was that the new, fancy, SUPER-COOL phones are very different from what the doctors and nursing staff are used to, and while doctors and nurses are extremely smart about what things you can and cannot do with human bodies, they are often not technically savvy folks. There was a fear that someone would run into confusion w/ the new phones while trying to yank a poor soul from the jaws of death and would LOSE THEIR SH*T if they suddenly had to grab a phone manual to make a damned call. Hence we phone coaches, who were mostly charged with “being around” to help folks w/ the phones if they needed it at any time. But for me it was mostly “wander around the ICU all night long, while nothing happened and nobody called anybody or got called by anybody. And eat Red Vines.” In order to “work” this shift I left my normal job at lunchtime and tried to nap for a couple of hours, but mostly I was up and working from 7am on Monday until about 7am on Tuesday.
But here (at last!) is the point of my rant: Time was (and has always been!) that I could have been up for 24 hours with no problems. NO PROBLEMS! “24 hours of being up? Bring it on!” I would have said. “Heck, while I’m at it I might as well stay up for 36 hours! It’s only another 12 hours!” Sleep, I figured, was for the sleepy and/or dead, and you can always get more sleep later. I don’t do skateboarding or skiing or anything, but was all about the EXTREEEEEME WORKING! And so off I went for my shift and I coached and I worked and the sun set and slept and rose and I finished and went home. By which I mean I got behind the wheel of my car and only fell asleep at 2 stoplights and only once forgot that I was DRIVING A 2-TON VEHICLE!, and finally got home and fell over dead on the couch and slept for about 4 hours. And then I was all good and got up and felt no ill effects and everything was just fine!
HA!!
I woke up after 4 hours and tried to eat, but instead napped a little. I showered and did a little work from home, but was attacked by another nap from out of nowhere. In the space of 12 hours I took something like 5 spontaneous naps. I felt like a narcoleptic, too afraid to operate heavy machinery because I didn’t know when the next attack-nap would strike. But hey, even that was ok, because at least at the end of the day I went to bed and slept like I would generally sleep and everything went back to normal.
HA AGAIN!!!
I’ve been sleepy and off-kilter ever since. It took several days for the attack-naps to back off completely. I slept in on Saturday until past 11am. And even this week I’ve felt like I’m walking through flaming oatmeal here, unable to get back up to speed and running on all cylinders. And my stomach, probably feeling left out of all the fun, has been throwing the occasional tantrum where food turns to poisonous gas in my stomach. Any food. Even safe food. With no rhyme or reason.
Oh, and it’s also apparently made me very whiney. See this post as “exhibit A”.
Because I’ve been so out of sorts, which I blame on my oldness and new inability to handle EXTREEEEEME WORK, I’ve been too busy for my life all this week. Work is piling up all over me. I’m working tons of extra hours, and still can never reach the end of the “to do” list. My personal life is a shambles, both because of all the work hours and the other stuff that has cropped up. (soon I will post for you the story of Chester, the Sad and Abandoned Kitty of Sadness and Woe. Watch for it.) So busy am I that I have not posted in almost a week! So busy am I that I haven’t emailed to the Queen ALL WEEK! Normally a daily thing, and yet silent has I been! She probably thinks I’m dead or in a coma or a Jehovah’s Witness or something!
Today is Friday. I’m going to get to the top of my pile IF IT KILLS ME! And from there I will be able to see everything and get a handle on it all and GET MY LIFE BACK! And BE LESS OLD!! (and STOP TYPING THINGS IN ALL CAPS!!!)
Background info: I work for a Medical Group (which is basically a big pile of doctors who have office hours and see patients for that which ails them). This Medical Group is part of a larger healthcare organization which also manages our sister/neighbor/good friend hospital (which is basically a bigger pile of doctors who have shifts and see anybody who crosses their medical path for that which SERIOUSLY ails them). The hospital just moved into a newer, bigger, super-StarTrekish-hightech building and it was a BIG DEAL in Hippyville! And because we’re related anyone who works for the Medical Group was helping out with the big move.
OK, so last week was the actual move and the first week in the new, fancy digs. And I have to tell you, there are so many cool things about this new building! Twice before I’ve started to write a post waxing geeksodic (it’s a word now – tell your friends) about all the cool things! Like for instance there are these big screens which can tell you where any patient is in the whole hospital based on their ID badges and sensors in the ceilings! I want to say “computer, where is ensign LaForge?” so it can tell me that he’s left the ship and is on the planet’s surface. Also we have NEUMATIC TUBES! Tubes that run for MILES all over the building and even to a near-by LAB BUILDING, running under the streets magically! Tubes in which you can put papers or lab samples or gloves or whatever you want and hit “send” and they’ll shoot away, popping up as if by magic in another place with a satisfy “Hshhhhh-THUNK!” Really, its just a great big pile of very cool toys that I wish I could play with.
In an effort to be helpful to the sister hospital I volunteered for a “phone coaching” shift last Tuesday from 6pm to 6am. Yes, that’s a 12-hour shift. Yes, that’s an overnight shift. The idea was that the new, fancy, SUPER-COOL phones are very different from what the doctors and nursing staff are used to, and while doctors and nurses are extremely smart about what things you can and cannot do with human bodies, they are often not technically savvy folks. There was a fear that someone would run into confusion w/ the new phones while trying to yank a poor soul from the jaws of death and would LOSE THEIR SH*T if they suddenly had to grab a phone manual to make a damned call. Hence we phone coaches, who were mostly charged with “being around” to help folks w/ the phones if they needed it at any time. But for me it was mostly “wander around the ICU all night long, while nothing happened and nobody called anybody or got called by anybody. And eat Red Vines.” In order to “work” this shift I left my normal job at lunchtime and tried to nap for a couple of hours, but mostly I was up and working from 7am on Monday until about 7am on Tuesday.
But here (at last!) is the point of my rant: Time was (and has always been!) that I could have been up for 24 hours with no problems. NO PROBLEMS! “24 hours of being up? Bring it on!” I would have said. “Heck, while I’m at it I might as well stay up for 36 hours! It’s only another 12 hours!” Sleep, I figured, was for the sleepy and/or dead, and you can always get more sleep later. I don’t do skateboarding or skiing or anything, but was all about the EXTREEEEEME WORKING! And so off I went for my shift and I coached and I worked and the sun set and slept and rose and I finished and went home. By which I mean I got behind the wheel of my car and only fell asleep at 2 stoplights and only once forgot that I was DRIVING A 2-TON VEHICLE!, and finally got home and fell over dead on the couch and slept for about 4 hours. And then I was all good and got up and felt no ill effects and everything was just fine!
HA!!
I woke up after 4 hours and tried to eat, but instead napped a little. I showered and did a little work from home, but was attacked by another nap from out of nowhere. In the space of 12 hours I took something like 5 spontaneous naps. I felt like a narcoleptic, too afraid to operate heavy machinery because I didn’t know when the next attack-nap would strike. But hey, even that was ok, because at least at the end of the day I went to bed and slept like I would generally sleep and everything went back to normal.
HA AGAIN!!!
I’ve been sleepy and off-kilter ever since. It took several days for the attack-naps to back off completely. I slept in on Saturday until past 11am. And even this week I’ve felt like I’m walking through flaming oatmeal here, unable to get back up to speed and running on all cylinders. And my stomach, probably feeling left out of all the fun, has been throwing the occasional tantrum where food turns to poisonous gas in my stomach. Any food. Even safe food. With no rhyme or reason.
Oh, and it’s also apparently made me very whiney. See this post as “exhibit A”.
Because I’ve been so out of sorts, which I blame on my oldness and new inability to handle EXTREEEEEME WORK, I’ve been too busy for my life all this week. Work is piling up all over me. I’m working tons of extra hours, and still can never reach the end of the “to do” list. My personal life is a shambles, both because of all the work hours and the other stuff that has cropped up. (soon I will post for you the story of Chester, the Sad and Abandoned Kitty of Sadness and Woe. Watch for it.) So busy am I that I have not posted in almost a week! So busy am I that I haven’t emailed to the Queen ALL WEEK! Normally a daily thing, and yet silent has I been! She probably thinks I’m dead or in a coma or a Jehovah’s Witness or something!
Today is Friday. I’m going to get to the top of my pile IF IT KILLS ME! And from there I will be able to see everything and get a handle on it all and GET MY LIFE BACK! And BE LESS OLD!! (and STOP TYPING THINGS IN ALL CAPS!!!)
Friday, August 15, 2008
Big Fail.
I went to see a local performance of Brigadoon tonight-
What. Yes, I like musicals. Shut up.
-and it was a pretty good performance over all. One reason to go was we (my parents and the favorite aunt) knew the dude who had the lead. He’s one of those people I don’t know very well, but I maintain my connection with him because eventually I’ll get to write the blog post about how I once coached the famous Dude McFamousy in his high school Improv troupe! Back when he wasn't so very, very, terribly and muchly famous! And also la-de-frickin’-da! And McFamousy was excellent, as he always, always is, but there was another guy (playing second banana character Jeff) who was even better. A super-talented actor. Really stood out from the whole cast.
Plus he was CUTE.
I check the bio in the program and lo, he is new in town! Also he’s all sorts of experienced, coming from some Big Cities of fame and reknown! Places where everyone is cute like that!
And he dedicated his performance. To. His. Mother. How fabulous is that? (and yes, I noticed that he did NOT dedicate his performance to any wives or girlfriends. This is also fabulous.)
So me, I’m smitten. And after the performance there’s this reception in the basement, full to overflowing w/ people in sweaty make-up and plaid. (Brigadoon, people.) My Dad wants to give the big hand shake to the family connection (aka Dude McFamousy) but I’m sneakily and trixily scanning the room for Second Banana from the Big City. Because since curtain call I’ve had this fantasy running in my head.
In the fantasy I go over and introduce myself to Big City guy and tell him how I think he stole the show and also I see you’re from , which is a great town and how are you liking Hippyville? And he perks up, because I know his Big City, and tells me how it’s been great, but he does miss the comedy and improv scene from his Big City. And that’s when I mention my Improv history, which will impress him (because usually girls aren’t both funny and fabulously fetching, like me) and we’ll strike up a conversation.
A conversation where I am both radiant and also witty. Charming but fascinating. I talk about shows I love and he loves them too, because we’re SO on the same page. We both love the comedy of Mitch Hedberg and think that Mencia is overrated. We enjoy a good book, but really indulge in comic books, especially from Dark Horse. He’s a Coke drinker, but I find that forgivable because I’m magnanimous like that. Oh, there are sparks, people! Sparks and chemistry and it’s the beginning of something…
Magical.
But in the REAL world, here’s me with my Mom and Dad and favorite Aunt. Because hitting the town with your older relatives is SO hot! And I’m standing across the room staring at this guy, but making absolutely no move to bridge the gap. The huge, mammoth, deep and wide and impassable gap that I cannot pass because lo! Impassable!
Plus the lame, paranoid and self conscious side of me arrives (she also likes musicals and requests that you shut up) to ask questions like "who's the girl standing next to her? Is that his date? Is that someone in the cast? Is it someone in the cast who wants to date him? Did she just touch his arm? I will KEEEELL her! Wait, did he just look at that guy's chest? Oh hell, is he gay? I can't feel my arm, because the love of my life is GAY! AGAIN! No, wait, he's just reading his shirt. Why didn't I wear a funny shirt? Do guys like girls who wear funny shirts? SHE TOUCHED HIS ARM AGAIN! KEEEELL HER!"
I’ve got a window of maybe 5 to 10 minutes maximum and I’m just standing by the pretzels, feeling the room fill up with uncomfortable, failure-flavored molasses.
And finally my Dad has had the Big Handshake w/ Dude McFamousy and I gotta leave because they’re my ride. They’re my ride! So hot! Guh. Goodbye to Big City guy, and to my life of talking theater and travel and how long we’ve waited for each other in this big, lonely world.
BIG FAIL.
This, my peoples, is why I really need to never go anywhere without the Queen ever again. She would never have let me leave that room w/out at least a sweaty-palmed handshake and a "Dude, you were super!"
What. Yes, I like musicals. Shut up.
-and it was a pretty good performance over all. One reason to go was we (my parents and the favorite aunt) knew the dude who had the lead. He’s one of those people I don’t know very well, but I maintain my connection with him because eventually I’ll get to write the blog post about how I once coached the famous Dude McFamousy in his high school Improv troupe! Back when he wasn't so very, very, terribly and muchly famous! And also la-de-frickin’-da! And McFamousy was excellent, as he always, always is, but there was another guy (playing second banana character Jeff) who was even better. A super-talented actor. Really stood out from the whole cast.
Plus he was CUTE.
I check the bio in the program and lo, he is new in town! Also he’s all sorts of experienced, coming from some Big Cities of fame and reknown! Places where everyone is cute like that!
And he dedicated his performance. To. His. Mother. How fabulous is that? (and yes, I noticed that he did NOT dedicate his performance to any wives or girlfriends. This is also fabulous.)
So me, I’m smitten. And after the performance there’s this reception in the basement, full to overflowing w/ people in sweaty make-up and plaid. (Brigadoon, people.) My Dad wants to give the big hand shake to the family connection (aka Dude McFamousy) but I’m sneakily and trixily scanning the room for Second Banana from the Big City. Because since curtain call I’ve had this fantasy running in my head.
In the fantasy I go over and introduce myself to Big City guy and tell him how I think he stole the show and also I see you’re from , which is a great town and how are you liking Hippyville? And he perks up, because I know his Big City, and tells me how it’s been great, but he does miss the comedy and improv scene from his Big City. And that’s when I mention my Improv history, which will impress him (because usually girls aren’t both funny and fabulously fetching, like me) and we’ll strike up a conversation.
A conversation where I am both radiant and also witty. Charming but fascinating. I talk about shows I love and he loves them too, because we’re SO on the same page. We both love the comedy of Mitch Hedberg and think that Mencia is overrated. We enjoy a good book, but really indulge in comic books, especially from Dark Horse. He’s a Coke drinker, but I find that forgivable because I’m magnanimous like that. Oh, there are sparks, people! Sparks and chemistry and it’s the beginning of something…
Magical.
But in the REAL world, here’s me with my Mom and Dad and favorite Aunt. Because hitting the town with your older relatives is SO hot! And I’m standing across the room staring at this guy, but making absolutely no move to bridge the gap. The huge, mammoth, deep and wide and impassable gap that I cannot pass because lo! Impassable!
Plus the lame, paranoid and self conscious side of me arrives (she also likes musicals and requests that you shut up) to ask questions like "who's the girl standing next to her? Is that his date? Is that someone in the cast? Is it someone in the cast who wants to date him? Did she just touch his arm? I will KEEEELL her! Wait, did he just look at that guy's chest? Oh hell, is he gay? I can't feel my arm, because the love of my life is GAY! AGAIN! No, wait, he's just reading his shirt. Why didn't I wear a funny shirt? Do guys like girls who wear funny shirts? SHE TOUCHED HIS ARM AGAIN! KEEEELL HER!"
I’ve got a window of maybe 5 to 10 minutes maximum and I’m just standing by the pretzels, feeling the room fill up with uncomfortable, failure-flavored molasses.
And finally my Dad has had the Big Handshake w/ Dude McFamousy and I gotta leave because they’re my ride. They’re my ride! So hot! Guh. Goodbye to Big City guy, and to my life of talking theater and travel and how long we’ve waited for each other in this big, lonely world.
BIG FAIL.
This, my peoples, is why I really need to never go anywhere without the Queen ever again. She would never have let me leave that room w/out at least a sweaty-palmed handshake and a "Dude, you were super!"
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
My Summer Vacation of MUCH KNOWLEDGE, part 2
When last we saw our hero (which is ME) she was taking a trip from Hippyville down to sunny (sunny, oh so very terribly and tragically sunny, please make the sunny stop) Palm Springs, CA. And this trip was full of knowledge. And now the hero (again, ME) is sharing the knowledge with her bestest internet friends. (which is YOU)
We covered knowledges 1 through 50 in the last post. Now we start this with knowledge number 51! Go, go, trippy knowledge!
51. Billboard seen driving down the street in Palm Springs: "If you must curse, use your own name. -god"
52. There are places along the San Adreas fault line where the earth has cracked open from earthquakiness
53. Along these lines there are these "natural oasis" where water comes up through the ground as if by magic
54. Because of the magical water-features there are also trees! Springing miraculously from the ground! All green and supernatural!
55. This happens in Hippyville too. Only it happens pretty much everywhere. And it's not considered magical at all.
56. It's also why we don't mind the rain here so much. Because rain = GREEN
57. There are actually douchebags in the world lame enough to smoke IN A SWIMMING POOL.
58. Glaring at these douchebags for a really long time, while psychically sending them the message “you are a great, big douchebag and should put out the cigarette that you just almost stuck into that little kid’s eye as he swam past. You douchebag.” doesn’t actually do anything.
59. However there’s no greater rush of pride than when your 12-yr old niece turns to you and says “Man, those people are such idiots.” Before she swims away. (tears of pride welling up at the memory.)
60. Except maybe when your 10-yr old nephew does a cannonball right by previously mentioned smoking tools, thereby putting out one of the cigarettes. (ok, seriously proud tears now.)
61. kids still play duck, duck, goose!
62. But now it’s EXTREME duck, duck, goose, where they run and run and RUN until the millisecond before they get tagged, and only THEN do they sit.
63. Watching EXTREME duck, duck, goose is exhausting. Especially when you remember that they’re running around in 114 degree temperatures.
64. European teenagers are just as full of youthful angst as their US counterparts,
65. and the only way to exercise the European angst is to go online
66. at any hour of the day and night
67. no matter how many other, non-angsty people are waiting for 5 minutes to check their email or WRITE A BLOG POST ABOUT HOW DANGED HOT IT IS!
68. Palm Springs was named after natural hot water springs that the local Indian tribes used for bathing and spiritual ceremonies. (no really!)
69. Not surprisingly, it was only a matter of time before The Man came along and tried to take away the springs.
70. Today those same springs are the center of a great big resort and spa and casino, run by a local Indian tribe and totally raking in the dough from crazy white people.
71. Because sometimes there is a certain amount of justice in the universe.
72. If there isn’t enough wind blowing the fields of wind generators won’t spin
73. This is a strangely spooky sight to behold
74. Great, huge schools of sardines gathering in the ocean off the coast of Santa Cruz begats great, huge flocks of pelicans on the beaches of, and in the skies over, Santa Cruz.
75. A sardine-rich pelican is a happy pelican. (but still goofy-lookin’)
76. The more exhausted you are when you arrive at your latest Motel 6, the more floors you’ll have to climb to reach your room.
77. If you book a Motel 6 room with two beds, even if you tell them it’s for three people, you will have only 2 towels.
78. and one washcloth.
79. However a screen over your large, 3rd-floor window is optional.
80. as is the complimentary fall to your death.
81. Never, ever, ever try to park on the street on the waterfront in San Francisco.
82. The meters charge a quarter for every 6 minutes!…
83. …and the maximum time you can buy is 1 hour…
84. …which is about how long it takes to find a nearby store willing to sell you enough quarters for another hour of time.
85. Segue tours around San Francisco seem like a very cool idea!
86. right up until you’re stuck driving behind them, moving down the street at roughly 4 miles per hour.
87. There are crazy people who voluntarily swim in the San Francisco bay, which is usually about 58 degrees.
88. No matter how hot you are the day before (even if you’re, say, 114 degrees?) this will still not seem like a refreshing idea as you see them go swimming by.
89. It helps a little if you imagine that they’ve escaped Alcatraz (behind you) and are making a mad, swimmy dash for Ghiradelli’s chocolate salvation.
90. Sea Lions are STINKIN’ FUN to watch.
91. Way more fun than watching a street magician hammer a nail into his nose.
92. Even if the magician was careful to clean that nail in alcohol before the hammering began.
93. If you are ever in Redding, CA, be sure to check out the Sundial Bridge at Turtle Bay Exploration Center!
94. A very effective way to keep someone from taking a sneaky, and urgently needed, tinkle behind your building after hours is to post a sign reading “Rattlesnake Habitat”
95. no actual rattlesnakes are required for this to be effective.
96. There’s no such thing as “too many pictures of an outrageous sunset.”
97. It’s important to remember, if you decide to sleep in one morning, that McDonalds stops selling Bacon, Egg and Cheese Biscuits PROMPTLY at 10:30am on Wednesdays.
98. Also an order of Carl’s Jr. criss-cut fries is not at all the same thing as an order of McDonalds hash browns, no matter how much you try.
99. Calico kitties hold a GRUDGE if you leave them for a week, no matter how cool the house sitter.
100. THERE IS NO PLACE LIKE HOME.
Thus endeth the knowledge acquired from this trip. I hope you found it as educational as it was obsessed with crazy-hot temperatures. Now enjoy this sunset picture, number 26 out of 47. (because you can't take too many pictures of an outrageous sunset...)
We covered knowledges 1 through 50 in the last post. Now we start this with knowledge number 51! Go, go, trippy knowledge!
51. Billboard seen driving down the street in Palm Springs: "If you must curse, use your own name. -god"
52. There are places along the San Adreas fault line where the earth has cracked open from earthquakiness
53. Along these lines there are these "natural oasis" where water comes up through the ground as if by magic
54. Because of the magical water-features there are also trees! Springing miraculously from the ground! All green and supernatural!
55. This happens in Hippyville too. Only it happens pretty much everywhere. And it's not considered magical at all.
56. It's also why we don't mind the rain here so much. Because rain = GREEN
57. There are actually douchebags in the world lame enough to smoke IN A SWIMMING POOL.
58. Glaring at these douchebags for a really long time, while psychically sending them the message “you are a great, big douchebag and should put out the cigarette that you just almost stuck into that little kid’s eye as he swam past. You douchebag.” doesn’t actually do anything.
59. However there’s no greater rush of pride than when your 12-yr old niece turns to you and says “Man, those people are such idiots.” Before she swims away. (tears of pride welling up at the memory.)
60. Except maybe when your 10-yr old nephew does a cannonball right by previously mentioned smoking tools, thereby putting out one of the cigarettes. (ok, seriously proud tears now.)
61. kids still play duck, duck, goose!
62. But now it’s EXTREME duck, duck, goose, where they run and run and RUN until the millisecond before they get tagged, and only THEN do they sit.
63. Watching EXTREME duck, duck, goose is exhausting. Especially when you remember that they’re running around in 114 degree temperatures.
64. European teenagers are just as full of youthful angst as their US counterparts,
65. and the only way to exercise the European angst is to go online
66. at any hour of the day and night
67. no matter how many other, non-angsty people are waiting for 5 minutes to check their email or WRITE A BLOG POST ABOUT HOW DANGED HOT IT IS!
68. Palm Springs was named after natural hot water springs that the local Indian tribes used for bathing and spiritual ceremonies. (no really!)
69. Not surprisingly, it was only a matter of time before The Man came along and tried to take away the springs.
70. Today those same springs are the center of a great big resort and spa and casino, run by a local Indian tribe and totally raking in the dough from crazy white people.
71. Because sometimes there is a certain amount of justice in the universe.
72. If there isn’t enough wind blowing the fields of wind generators won’t spin
73. This is a strangely spooky sight to behold
74. Great, huge schools of sardines gathering in the ocean off the coast of Santa Cruz begats great, huge flocks of pelicans on the beaches of, and in the skies over, Santa Cruz.
75. A sardine-rich pelican is a happy pelican. (but still goofy-lookin’)
76. The more exhausted you are when you arrive at your latest Motel 6, the more floors you’ll have to climb to reach your room.
77. If you book a Motel 6 room with two beds, even if you tell them it’s for three people, you will have only 2 towels.
78. and one washcloth.
79. However a screen over your large, 3rd-floor window is optional.
80. as is the complimentary fall to your death.
81. Never, ever, ever try to park on the street on the waterfront in San Francisco.
82. The meters charge a quarter for every 6 minutes!…
83. …and the maximum time you can buy is 1 hour…
84. …which is about how long it takes to find a nearby store willing to sell you enough quarters for another hour of time.
85. Segue tours around San Francisco seem like a very cool idea!
86. right up until you’re stuck driving behind them, moving down the street at roughly 4 miles per hour.
87. There are crazy people who voluntarily swim in the San Francisco bay, which is usually about 58 degrees.
88. No matter how hot you are the day before (even if you’re, say, 114 degrees?) this will still not seem like a refreshing idea as you see them go swimming by.
89. It helps a little if you imagine that they’ve escaped Alcatraz (behind you) and are making a mad, swimmy dash for Ghiradelli’s chocolate salvation.
90. Sea Lions are STINKIN’ FUN to watch.
91. Way more fun than watching a street magician hammer a nail into his nose.
92. Even if the magician was careful to clean that nail in alcohol before the hammering began.
93. If you are ever in Redding, CA, be sure to check out the Sundial Bridge at Turtle Bay Exploration Center!
94. A very effective way to keep someone from taking a sneaky, and urgently needed, tinkle behind your building after hours is to post a sign reading “Rattlesnake Habitat”
95. no actual rattlesnakes are required for this to be effective.
96. There’s no such thing as “too many pictures of an outrageous sunset.”
97. It’s important to remember, if you decide to sleep in one morning, that McDonalds stops selling Bacon, Egg and Cheese Biscuits PROMPTLY at 10:30am on Wednesdays.
98. Also an order of Carl’s Jr. criss-cut fries is not at all the same thing as an order of McDonalds hash browns, no matter how much you try.
99. Calico kitties hold a GRUDGE if you leave them for a week, no matter how cool the house sitter.
100. THERE IS NO PLACE LIKE HOME.
Thus endeth the knowledge acquired from this trip. I hope you found it as educational as it was obsessed with crazy-hot temperatures. Now enjoy this sunset picture, number 26 out of 47. (because you can't take too many pictures of an outrageous sunset...)
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Just when you thought I was done being amazed at Palm Springs heat...
Since I was gone for so long I figure I should tell you something about my trip, but I don’t want to create the blog-equivalent of “hey, come over and see the 3-hour slideshow of pictures of trees I took while touring Vermont!” As such, I will do it thusly:
100 Things I learned while on a 1-week trip from Hippyville to Palm Springs for a family reunion.
OR
“what I did on my family vacation. By Femtastic.”
(OR “No WONDER August is the off-season time to visit Palm Springs. KILL ME!”)
1. if you set fire to a big chunk of a State, suck as California for instance, it makes everything super-smoky. I recommend against it.
2. You can’t really take cool pictures of things zinging by your car window while driving down the freeway. You can take pictures of the place that was cool three seconds before. It’s not the same
3. All firefighters are hot (no pun intended).
4. when you drive through California in the summer you’ll encounter packs of wild, roaming firefighters in every fast food joint you visit.
5. if they get there right before you do you’re going to have a long wait until you get to order
6. but at least you’ll have something nice to look at while you wait.
7. It sucks that there are no Sonic restaurants in Hippyville
8. but it’s very stupid that there are so many in California
9. because it’s so hot there that everyone has to sit there in their CARS with their AIR CONDITIONING RUNNING while they eat their food!
10. The milk shake was still super-fabulous, even with the side-order of guilt
11. When a fancy resort is charging the same amount for a night as a Stockton Motel 6 you know you’re there during the “off season”
12. this is your first clue that you should flee immediately
13. If you throw a street fair in Palm Springs in August you should start it at about 7pm, when the sun goes down
14. even though it’s still approximately 102 degrees
15. the booths, at such a street fair, who are selling hot Mexican food and burgers and kabobs will do decent business
16. but that’s nothing compared to the one guy selling fruity icees, who will have a line roughly 6 blocks long
17. which you will gladly stand in as long as there is cold, slushy, lemony drink goodness at the other end!
18. it’s impossible to tell which is a more sure sign of madness: that the strange street performer is a rock violinist with his own flashing lights and wind machine
19. or that his costume covers neck to toes, (in 102 degree heat, people!) with some suit-of-armor accents. (wind machine, by the way, is key)
20. either way, nobody is going to buy his CDs, but they will take their pictures standing right in front of him, which is tourist for “Dude, I think you’re totally wackadoo!”
21. if you step into a swimming pool at 9pm and the water is just as hot as the air, which is about 99 degrees, it’s completely appropriate to cry a little. Nobody will judge you.
22. it is not possible to turn your hotel room’s air conditioning up too much if the outside is still gonna be “I hate it here so much” hot at 3am.
23. people crazy enough to live in Palm Springs also think it’s reasonable to get up at 4:30am every day. To avoid the heat
24. even though it’s still hot at 4:30am, and even hotter by 5am
25. As such, all the bars close down around 11am because everyone goes to bed at 8:30pm.
26. you’d think that someplace that hot wouldn’t bother with outdoor seating at their restaurants, but you’d be wrong.
27. instead all the outdoor seating has fancy little misters over the heads of the guests, spraying a fine, and constant, cool ‘pffffsssstttt’ of water.
28. all outdoor seated eaters end up damp, either because the misters aren’t reaching them, and therefore the exertion of just sitting and eating have worked up a huge sweat that’s soaked their clothing OR
29. they misters are reaching them, and gently watering them like a bag of carrots at the supermarket.
30. either way you end up the same way: hot, wet and cranky. Check please!
31. Apparently your 12-pack of soda cans will explode both if they’re left in a very cold box, like a freezer, OR if they’re left in a very hot box.
32. like the trunk of a rental car
33. rental car places do not check the trunk for mysteriously sticky carpets when you return the car.
34. A can of Pepsi that has spent 2 days in the uber-hot trunk of a rental Honda is still pretty tasty, once you can get the bulging top open.
35. it takes more than 5 days to stop being constantly amazed at how hot it is in Palm Springs in August.
36. Nobody is too cool to have a monkey bank. Monkey banks are just that cool.
37. apparently my fear of heights is exceeded by my hatred of abundant heat
38. as I was motivated to take a dangly little tram car, suspended over a terrible drop of death, up to the top of a mountain by the promise of a 30+ degree drop in temperature.
39. sun screen comes in spf 70.
40. Which is the lotion equivalent of a flannel shirt
41. and feels like your coating yourself in a fine layer of cream cheese
42. but works super-good for keeping out the sun. (although next time I might just try using cream cheese.)
43. Some palm trees grow with ladders on their trunks and bags wrapped around their fruits
44. sometimes the fruits hanging off of palm trees are “dates”
45. an educational movie about how dates reproduce can be way more naughty than you might think.
46. according to the good people at Shields Date farms, there is no natural way for the male date to pollinate the female date, so the farmers do it by hand.
47. except then how did they ever exist in the first place?
48. no, I don’t think this is where the concept of 2 people “dating” originally came from
49. at the same time, I will forever think of the date mating video if ever I “date” again.
50. date shakes taste way better then you’d think they would, seeing as the actual fruit looks like shiny poop.
...it's late, I have to get up much too early tomorrow morning and I have a movie to finish, so I'll post this first half and complete the other 50 things soon. g'night!
100 Things I learned while on a 1-week trip from Hippyville to Palm Springs for a family reunion.
OR
“what I did on my family vacation. By Femtastic.”
(OR “No WONDER August is the off-season time to visit Palm Springs. KILL ME!”)
1. if you set fire to a big chunk of a State, suck as California for instance, it makes everything super-smoky. I recommend against it.
2. You can’t really take cool pictures of things zinging by your car window while driving down the freeway. You can take pictures of the place that was cool three seconds before. It’s not the same
3. All firefighters are hot (no pun intended).
4. when you drive through California in the summer you’ll encounter packs of wild, roaming firefighters in every fast food joint you visit.
5. if they get there right before you do you’re going to have a long wait until you get to order
6. but at least you’ll have something nice to look at while you wait.
7. It sucks that there are no Sonic restaurants in Hippyville
8. but it’s very stupid that there are so many in California
9. because it’s so hot there that everyone has to sit there in their CARS with their AIR CONDITIONING RUNNING while they eat their food!
10. The milk shake was still super-fabulous, even with the side-order of guilt
11. When a fancy resort is charging the same amount for a night as a Stockton Motel 6 you know you’re there during the “off season”
12. this is your first clue that you should flee immediately
13. If you throw a street fair in Palm Springs in August you should start it at about 7pm, when the sun goes down
14. even though it’s still approximately 102 degrees
15. the booths, at such a street fair, who are selling hot Mexican food and burgers and kabobs will do decent business
16. but that’s nothing compared to the one guy selling fruity icees, who will have a line roughly 6 blocks long
17. which you will gladly stand in as long as there is cold, slushy, lemony drink goodness at the other end!
18. it’s impossible to tell which is a more sure sign of madness: that the strange street performer is a rock violinist with his own flashing lights and wind machine
19. or that his costume covers neck to toes, (in 102 degree heat, people!) with some suit-of-armor accents. (wind machine, by the way, is key)
20. either way, nobody is going to buy his CDs, but they will take their pictures standing right in front of him, which is tourist for “Dude, I think you’re totally wackadoo!”
21. if you step into a swimming pool at 9pm and the water is just as hot as the air, which is about 99 degrees, it’s completely appropriate to cry a little. Nobody will judge you.
22. it is not possible to turn your hotel room’s air conditioning up too much if the outside is still gonna be “I hate it here so much” hot at 3am.
23. people crazy enough to live in Palm Springs also think it’s reasonable to get up at 4:30am every day. To avoid the heat
24. even though it’s still hot at 4:30am, and even hotter by 5am
25. As such, all the bars close down around 11am because everyone goes to bed at 8:30pm.
26. you’d think that someplace that hot wouldn’t bother with outdoor seating at their restaurants, but you’d be wrong.
27. instead all the outdoor seating has fancy little misters over the heads of the guests, spraying a fine, and constant, cool ‘pffffsssstttt’ of water.
28. all outdoor seated eaters end up damp, either because the misters aren’t reaching them, and therefore the exertion of just sitting and eating have worked up a huge sweat that’s soaked their clothing OR
29. they misters are reaching them, and gently watering them like a bag of carrots at the supermarket.
30. either way you end up the same way: hot, wet and cranky. Check please!
31. Apparently your 12-pack of soda cans will explode both if they’re left in a very cold box, like a freezer, OR if they’re left in a very hot box.
32. like the trunk of a rental car
33. rental car places do not check the trunk for mysteriously sticky carpets when you return the car.
34. A can of Pepsi that has spent 2 days in the uber-hot trunk of a rental Honda is still pretty tasty, once you can get the bulging top open.
35. it takes more than 5 days to stop being constantly amazed at how hot it is in Palm Springs in August.
36. Nobody is too cool to have a monkey bank. Monkey banks are just that cool.
37. apparently my fear of heights is exceeded by my hatred of abundant heat
38. as I was motivated to take a dangly little tram car, suspended over a terrible drop of death, up to the top of a mountain by the promise of a 30+ degree drop in temperature.
39. sun screen comes in spf 70.
40. Which is the lotion equivalent of a flannel shirt
41. and feels like your coating yourself in a fine layer of cream cheese
42. but works super-good for keeping out the sun. (although next time I might just try using cream cheese.)
43. Some palm trees grow with ladders on their trunks and bags wrapped around their fruits
44. sometimes the fruits hanging off of palm trees are “dates”
45. an educational movie about how dates reproduce can be way more naughty than you might think.
46. according to the good people at Shields Date farms, there is no natural way for the male date to pollinate the female date, so the farmers do it by hand.
47. except then how did they ever exist in the first place?
48. no, I don’t think this is where the concept of 2 people “dating” originally came from
49. at the same time, I will forever think of the date mating video if ever I “date” again.
50. date shakes taste way better then you’d think they would, seeing as the actual fruit looks like shiny poop.
...it's late, I have to get up much too early tomorrow morning and I have a movie to finish, so I'll post this first half and complete the other 50 things soon. g'night!
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Hot no more. (but in the good way)
Well I am EVER so pleased to report that I'm back to the land of the temperate climates. My shorts are no longer stuck to me in gross and inhuman ways, and there is not the constant whirrrr of the air conditioner buzzing through my brain. I've actually been back one whole day, but I wasn't able to post yesterday due to being very busy smooching all of the opened windows and making sweet, sweet love to the weatherman as he whispered "with a high of 89 degrees" into my non-sweaty ear. Priorities, people -- I has them.
Anyway, tomorrow I will regale you with tales of my trip and stuff. It will be awesome, because my brain will be able to think anything besides "I'm sweating where?"
Anyway, tomorrow I will regale you with tales of my trip and stuff. It will be awesome, because my brain will be able to think anything besides "I'm sweating where?"
Saturday, August 02, 2008
Too... Hot... To.........
I have never been this in love with air conditioning in my whole life. It's truly the greatest invention since INVENTIONS and I want to buy stock in the company responsible or write an epic poem about it's wonderfulness or have "Air Conditioning is SUPER-AWESOME!!!" tattood lovingly across my busom.
Because it's awesome. Is all I'm saying.
Four days ago I was snooty and pious and "ooh, air conditioning is for weenies and wimps and pansie-asses and I don't use it, even though I totally could, because la-dee-dah I'm ever so above it all!" Then I got into a car and drove south, south, south into the land of "wholly crap, who the hell ever thought it was a good idea to live HERE???? In places where they like to use the word "desert" in their NAME???" and I fell for Air Conditioning. I fell hard. I went to sleep dreaming of clandestine moonlit walks with air conditioning and woke up with the strong desire to stroke the big, jet-engine-fan wall unit to show my love and devotion. "Who needs a man," I ask myself "when you can have air conditioning?" Oh baby, I've got it bad for the old A.C.
Seriously, this is the hottest I've been since ever and ever. Yesterday? It was 114. DE. GREES. On PURPOSE! Every time I walk outside, even if it's just to run to the car to get something and run right back, I feel like I'm getting smacked in the whole front of my body with the vent-end of a clothing dryer! At night, when it's SUPPOSED to get COOLER, you go outside and the still hotness jumps on your head and smothers you from the top down. The first night I stood in the outside pool and wept for the water was the exact same temperature as the air. And the air was 98. Still degrees. This, my peoples, is just not right! I stand perfectly still outside for three minutes and the seat of my underwear fills up with water running down from my back. From all that strenuous standing around and trying not to die. My sister turned on the auto-open-thing on her van because nobody could TOUCH the DOOR HANDLES for all the ridiculous HOOOOOOOOOT!!!
I have never hated an outsideness more in my life.
I don't know if I'll get a chance to blog again before I get back (later I'll explain how it was that in order to do this post I had to wrestle the one and only lobby computer away from a never-ending stream of teenage European girls with angst!) but I'll try. In the meantime, whenever you feel a lovely, cool breeze think of me, trying to open the car door with my damned beach hat!
Because it's awesome. Is all I'm saying.
Four days ago I was snooty and pious and "ooh, air conditioning is for weenies and wimps and pansie-asses and I don't use it, even though I totally could, because la-dee-dah I'm ever so above it all!" Then I got into a car and drove south, south, south into the land of "wholly crap, who the hell ever thought it was a good idea to live HERE???? In places where they like to use the word "desert" in their NAME???" and I fell for Air Conditioning. I fell hard. I went to sleep dreaming of clandestine moonlit walks with air conditioning and woke up with the strong desire to stroke the big, jet-engine-fan wall unit to show my love and devotion. "Who needs a man," I ask myself "when you can have air conditioning?" Oh baby, I've got it bad for the old A.C.
Seriously, this is the hottest I've been since ever and ever. Yesterday? It was 114. DE. GREES. On PURPOSE! Every time I walk outside, even if it's just to run to the car to get something and run right back, I feel like I'm getting smacked in the whole front of my body with the vent-end of a clothing dryer! At night, when it's SUPPOSED to get COOLER, you go outside and the still hotness jumps on your head and smothers you from the top down. The first night I stood in the outside pool and wept for the water was the exact same temperature as the air. And the air was 98. Still degrees. This, my peoples, is just not right! I stand perfectly still outside for three minutes and the seat of my underwear fills up with water running down from my back. From all that strenuous standing around and trying not to die. My sister turned on the auto-open-thing on her van because nobody could TOUCH the DOOR HANDLES for all the ridiculous HOOOOOOOOOT!!!
I have never hated an outsideness more in my life.
I don't know if I'll get a chance to blog again before I get back (later I'll explain how it was that in order to do this post I had to wrestle the one and only lobby computer away from a never-ending stream of teenage European girls with angst!) but I'll try. In the meantime, whenever you feel a lovely, cool breeze think of me, trying to open the car door with my damned beach hat!
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
See, but this time I have an actual REASON
Hey, I'm going on vacation! Woo Hoo! A vacation to Palm Springs in August, which is one of those classically bad ideas like tonguing a car battery or 2 terms of George W. Bush as president, but a vacation none the less! But since I'm all low-tech and poor and have no lap-toppy-ness I've got no guaranteed way of posting while I'm gone. I will TRY, TRY, TRY, but if I'm super quiet for the next week just remember that I'll also be super sweaty.
and not in the good way.
See you in a week!
and not in the good way.
See you in a week!
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Hard Ass with not so much flirting
OK, so is it bad if you there’s a guy who flirts with you, and the very next day you rip him a new one? That’s bad, right? That discourages flirting, right? NOT sending the right message.
Yeah, that’s what I thought…
See, the other day I was chatting with this freelance mover guy who is working with my company. We were just chatting, chatting, super-casual chatting, and then ooh! Hey, what was that there? Was that there a little flirting? A little sneaky, subtle flirting? I think it was!
He’s all “here’s my email address and stuff so you can send me work info and stuff.” And I’m all “cool. Thanks. ‘sup.” And he’s all “wow, you know about the stock market too? Cool! We’re totally connected!” and I’m all “tee hee, the stock market is cool, I’m totally into that.” And he’s all “my ex-wife used to spend all my money which sucked and I was totally in debt and that sucked too…” and I’m all “…”
Did I mention that this guy is older? Like probably 10-15 years older? But not creepy older! More like that salt-and-pepper sexy thing! Silver foxish, see? So, ya know, there’s an ex-wife and uber-awkward flirting right then. Sigh.
Anyway, overall it was excellent flirting action. I knew that you guys would be so proud of me! I thought to myself, as I was batting eyelashes and showing leg (sock, really, but you know what I’m going for) “oh my internet friends will be ever so pleased that I’m here flirting with this guy. Yay for me!”
Until he went and RUINED it!
See, the next day this guy is supposed to give me this THING and he doesn’t, and doesn’t, and then doesn’t some more. And then he DOES and it’s missing all this information! So I did what I had to do: I bust him on it! I say to Mr. Flirty McDivorcee “you yourself said you’d get me this info, dude!” To which flirty boy says “I lied.”
I LIED??? Oh, it is ON, my friend!!! Flirting or no flirting, right now I’m mostly looking forward to seeing you CRY!!!
Yeah, I verbally provided him with a new and fabulous crap exit route, so to be speaking. Because it is SO NOT OK to tell me one thing, do another, lesser, crappy thing and then reply with “I LIED” Someone had to die, I’m sure you would agree. Hot and Cold running My Foot Up His Ass, that’s what there was!
Of course most dating “how-to” books are probably going to tell me how this is not the way to have future flirting opportunities. Sigh. Such is the difficult love life of we, the hard asses. The lonely, kick-butt hard asses.
Yeah, that’s what I thought…
See, the other day I was chatting with this freelance mover guy who is working with my company. We were just chatting, chatting, super-casual chatting, and then ooh! Hey, what was that there? Was that there a little flirting? A little sneaky, subtle flirting? I think it was!
He’s all “here’s my email address and stuff so you can send me work info and stuff.” And I’m all “cool. Thanks. ‘sup.” And he’s all “wow, you know about the stock market too? Cool! We’re totally connected!” and I’m all “tee hee, the stock market is cool, I’m totally into that.” And he’s all “my ex-wife used to spend all my money which sucked and I was totally in debt and that sucked too…” and I’m all “…”
Did I mention that this guy is older? Like probably 10-15 years older? But not creepy older! More like that salt-and-pepper sexy thing! Silver foxish, see? So, ya know, there’s an ex-wife and uber-awkward flirting right then. Sigh.
Anyway, overall it was excellent flirting action. I knew that you guys would be so proud of me! I thought to myself, as I was batting eyelashes and showing leg (sock, really, but you know what I’m going for) “oh my internet friends will be ever so pleased that I’m here flirting with this guy. Yay for me!”
Until he went and RUINED it!
See, the next day this guy is supposed to give me this THING and he doesn’t, and doesn’t, and then doesn’t some more. And then he DOES and it’s missing all this information! So I did what I had to do: I bust him on it! I say to Mr. Flirty McDivorcee “you yourself said you’d get me this info, dude!” To which flirty boy says “I lied.”
I LIED??? Oh, it is ON, my friend!!! Flirting or no flirting, right now I’m mostly looking forward to seeing you CRY!!!
Yeah, I verbally provided him with a new and fabulous crap exit route, so to be speaking. Because it is SO NOT OK to tell me one thing, do another, lesser, crappy thing and then reply with “I LIED” Someone had to die, I’m sure you would agree. Hot and Cold running My Foot Up His Ass, that’s what there was!
Of course most dating “how-to” books are probably going to tell me how this is not the way to have future flirting opportunities. Sigh. Such is the difficult love life of we, the hard asses. The lonely, kick-butt hard asses.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
CLEAR!!! STAT!!!
Prologue: a couple of months ago my boy kitty acquired a hummingbird in a less-than-good-for-hummingbirds way. I freed it, put it in a box with water and waited the night. The next day I had a box of dead hummingbird. And atrocious, heart-crushing guilt. (and a boy kitty with bells hanging off his collar.)
Cut to Saturday: I’m sitting with kitties out in my yard, soaking up the sun and reading my guilty-pleasure graphic novel and just enjoying the lack of work I’m at. And no where near the big, shiny glass windows of my house, so neither I nor my kitties can be blamed for the hummingbird that cracked his head into the window and landed – thunk! – on the walk in front of the house.
At first both kitties and I just sat there watching the wee thing plop onto the ground and kind of roll around sloppy-like. We were all “blink, blink, blink… is that a bird?” And then it was ON! A MAD DASH between me and kitties racing for the hummer, with me crying out “NoNoNoNoNoNoNONONONONO KITTIES NOOOOO!!!” all the wailing was enough for girl kitty, who basically said “screw this” and detoured to the driveway. The boy kitty beat me to the bird, but as he’s still new to hunting and hasn’t had me take away that many conquests yet he didn’t know enough to grab it and run. So I got to them before he’d done much more than circle it all curious-like.
I sat down by the hummingbird, who was quite clearly stunned but otherwise look unscathed. EXCEPT that her wings were… wrong. They didn’t look broken per se, but they weren’t sleeked up along her body. They looked like they’d stuck in the “flap on” position when she smacked the window, only they weren’t flapping. They were more at the flap ready? Anyway, she was blinky and woosy and for a while she kept kind of lolling over to the side in a SUPER-DISCONCERTING way! Like she was swooning or maybe even about to plop over all a-faint! She never plopped, but it still freaked me out.
My whole job was basically to keep kitty boy on the other side of my graphic novel, which was now playing the part of “movable wall” between he and birdy. Birdy just sat there, looking so unlike a hummingbird. Kind of squat. And STILL. I sincerely hope to never see a hummingbird look that still again – creepy. But she neither flopped over succumby nor did she recover. She just coasted. For the LONGEST time.
And I’m sitting here thinking “last time this was a sad story. Plus also why do these things always do this as the sun is setting? They can’t hang out in my house overnight and I can’t let them go at night! Note to the rest of the hummers in the neighborhood: please do any future injuries or maladies in the morning or afternoon! No more evening traumas please!”
Finally hummer started to look like things were righting themselves. Less blinking and faster breathing (which for any other species would seem bad, but not for hummers) and I just really wanted her to put her wings away. Because they still looked SO WRONG. So here is me, gently coaxing her wings with the tippy-tip of my pinky finger (because I had apparently decided that was the safest way to move around things built of bones the size of dental floss), just sweet-talking them into laying more flat and wing-like.
And after about 10 minutes of sitting and 20 seconds of wing coaxing (which had resulted in a net wing movement of pretty much hardly nothing) Ms. Hummingbird looked me right in the eye and evaporated! POOF! Reappearing on the branch of my front tree. MIRACLE CURE! And HAPPY ENDING!* YAY!
*Note: Boy Kitty would like to dispute the “happy ending” ruling on this story, and is petitioning to have the final paragraph changed to read “tragic, heartbreaking and so completely unfair ending. Dammit.” Ruling is pending.
Cut to Saturday: I’m sitting with kitties out in my yard, soaking up the sun and reading my guilty-pleasure graphic novel and just enjoying the lack of work I’m at. And no where near the big, shiny glass windows of my house, so neither I nor my kitties can be blamed for the hummingbird that cracked his head into the window and landed – thunk! – on the walk in front of the house.
At first both kitties and I just sat there watching the wee thing plop onto the ground and kind of roll around sloppy-like. We were all “blink, blink, blink… is that a bird?” And then it was ON! A MAD DASH between me and kitties racing for the hummer, with me crying out “NoNoNoNoNoNoNONONONONO KITTIES NOOOOO!!!” all the wailing was enough for girl kitty, who basically said “screw this” and detoured to the driveway. The boy kitty beat me to the bird, but as he’s still new to hunting and hasn’t had me take away that many conquests yet he didn’t know enough to grab it and run. So I got to them before he’d done much more than circle it all curious-like.
I sat down by the hummingbird, who was quite clearly stunned but otherwise look unscathed. EXCEPT that her wings were… wrong. They didn’t look broken per se, but they weren’t sleeked up along her body. They looked like they’d stuck in the “flap on” position when she smacked the window, only they weren’t flapping. They were more at the flap ready? Anyway, she was blinky and woosy and for a while she kept kind of lolling over to the side in a SUPER-DISCONCERTING way! Like she was swooning or maybe even about to plop over all a-faint! She never plopped, but it still freaked me out.
My whole job was basically to keep kitty boy on the other side of my graphic novel, which was now playing the part of “movable wall” between he and birdy. Birdy just sat there, looking so unlike a hummingbird. Kind of squat. And STILL. I sincerely hope to never see a hummingbird look that still again – creepy. But she neither flopped over succumby nor did she recover. She just coasted. For the LONGEST time.
And I’m sitting here thinking “last time this was a sad story. Plus also why do these things always do this as the sun is setting? They can’t hang out in my house overnight and I can’t let them go at night! Note to the rest of the hummers in the neighborhood: please do any future injuries or maladies in the morning or afternoon! No more evening traumas please!”
Finally hummer started to look like things were righting themselves. Less blinking and faster breathing (which for any other species would seem bad, but not for hummers) and I just really wanted her to put her wings away. Because they still looked SO WRONG. So here is me, gently coaxing her wings with the tippy-tip of my pinky finger (because I had apparently decided that was the safest way to move around things built of bones the size of dental floss), just sweet-talking them into laying more flat and wing-like.
And after about 10 minutes of sitting and 20 seconds of wing coaxing (which had resulted in a net wing movement of pretty much hardly nothing) Ms. Hummingbird looked me right in the eye and evaporated! POOF! Reappearing on the branch of my front tree. MIRACLE CURE! And HAPPY ENDING!* YAY!
*Note: Boy Kitty would like to dispute the “happy ending” ruling on this story, and is petitioning to have the final paragraph changed to read “tragic, heartbreaking and so completely unfair ending. Dammit.” Ruling is pending.
Friday, July 18, 2008
where Wii Fit pulls down my pants and makes me cry.
I’m still a big fan of the Wii. In fact, of all the games things I’ve ever messed with, that’s the only one I’m sort of giddy and dreamy over. And people all around me have them, which means I hate people all around me. (sigh) The newest cool Wii thing is the Wii Fit. It’s a game! No, it’s an exercise device! WAIT, you’re both right! And it’s also the first sign of the apocolypse. (up next: Carrot Top for Senate.)
Right, so someone I know (and this time we’re protecting their innocence by using NO NAMES) just got a Wii fit, inviting me to check it out. If someone gives you this opportunity it will SEEM like a good idea. But it is really a trap and you should run away. And your friends who invited you are really just wanting to spread the abuse! And they don’t actually love you! (or they’re very skinny and don’t realize what they’re offering.)
Wii Fit is two things: extremely cool, and MEAN!! And you have to claw through the MEAN to get to the extremely cool. You set up one of those “mii” things, right? You’ll notice that those things aren’t particularly detailed; they’re innocent and simple. They don’t expect you to include your droopy eye or your slight limp or your secret incontenence – just hair color and eye color and maybe height or a kicky little hairdo! But when you take your innocent, helpless mii and run it through the registration of the Wii Fit bad things could happen. I’m just sayin’.
Here’s one thing I do like about the Wii Fit: though I’m sure the fancy pad thing that you stand on has the ability to determine your weight, it doesn’t tell you what it is. It does not bill itself as “most expensive scale ever” But it does ask you for your height and your age. And then the first bit of evil: it takes that precious little mii, all innocent and simple and not hurting anyone, and it throws it up next to a range of, oh lets call them body types. Ranging from something like “skinny” to “normal” to “overweight” to “obese” (yes, it uses the “O” word.) The arrow zooms up and down this range and then it lands somewhere. For instance, if you are ME, it lands on OBESE. According to that rat bastard the Wii Fit, I’m OBESE! And then, just to show you who’s boss the damn thing takes your mii and MAKES IT FAT! Like “First I call you names, fatty-fatty-fat-fat, and then I make your Mii my bitch! Next I’m going to have your Mii eat a bunch of Twinkies and drink an entire Big Gulp! You are FAAAAAAT!”
And does it stop there? Oh no! The festival of abuse is only half-through! (I’m telling you this so that you can weigh your options before you step on the magical pad. Sure, virtual hoola hoops SOUNDS fun, but is it worth the mind games and manipulation? IS IT???) Next the Wii Fit makes you do this balance test where you sway and lean and bend over and I KNOW that there are scores of robot cameras flying around the country filming people doing this in their living rooms for some robo-gag reel that our robot overlords will watch at the Christmas party after they take over the world! Once the balance thing is done if you didn’t balance just right it MOCKS YOU! “Do you find you trip when you walk?” DO YOU FIND MY FOOT UP YOUR WII ASS???
After all of this there’s still one more super-awesome part: your Wii Fit Age. In other words, “now that I’ve told you that you’re both fat and also clumsy, I’m gonna top it off by calling you old before your time. Also I’ll ask if you wore that shirt in public and make you spell endocrine.”
Get this: my friends are both in better shape than I am in real life, and neither of them were honored with the “obese” title, and yet their Wii Fit ages were OLDER than they were, while mine was YOUNGER. And the only thing with which I had more success was the balance test. The message I took from this was “young people have good balance.” Which I KNOW is not true, because the youngest person I know is Princess Long Toes and she is SUPER easy to knock over! Heck, just give her a tiny nudge and she’ll fall right on her ass! She can’t even WALK! So I fear I must call shenanigans on the Wii Fit for that.
Where was I? Oh yeah, fat but with fabulous balance. (by the way, a quality I’m sure most men are really looking for. I’ve already added it to my profile on the free man-attracting website: “not slim, but exceptional balance. Will consider yoga positions during sex!”)
After ALL of this you get to do the Wii Fit stuff, and this is the worst part of all: it’s super-cool! Seriously! There are BUNCHES of things and they’re challenging and fun and yet they really do seem like they’re fit-inducing! Not just aerobic stuff (which we all knew was coming once we worked up a major sweat boxing virtual-dude with the Wii Sports) but also balance stuff (let us all bow our head for a moment of silence for my friend who plummeted to her death off of the tight rope. Like 6 times…) and yoga stuff and strength stuff… Like I think this could make sit-ups actually fun. And I HATE sit-ups!
In the end, even though I felt like I was being hazed for the first 20 minutes, the Wii Fit is still something that I covet and envy and super-want. Now if you will excuse me, I’m going to go walk around the house with a book on my head to give me a feeling of superiority. Obese, well-balanced superiority.
Right, so someone I know (and this time we’re protecting their innocence by using NO NAMES) just got a Wii fit, inviting me to check it out. If someone gives you this opportunity it will SEEM like a good idea. But it is really a trap and you should run away. And your friends who invited you are really just wanting to spread the abuse! And they don’t actually love you! (or they’re very skinny and don’t realize what they’re offering.)
Wii Fit is two things: extremely cool, and MEAN!! And you have to claw through the MEAN to get to the extremely cool. You set up one of those “mii” things, right? You’ll notice that those things aren’t particularly detailed; they’re innocent and simple. They don’t expect you to include your droopy eye or your slight limp or your secret incontenence – just hair color and eye color and maybe height or a kicky little hairdo! But when you take your innocent, helpless mii and run it through the registration of the Wii Fit bad things could happen. I’m just sayin’.
Here’s one thing I do like about the Wii Fit: though I’m sure the fancy pad thing that you stand on has the ability to determine your weight, it doesn’t tell you what it is. It does not bill itself as “most expensive scale ever” But it does ask you for your height and your age. And then the first bit of evil: it takes that precious little mii, all innocent and simple and not hurting anyone, and it throws it up next to a range of, oh lets call them body types. Ranging from something like “skinny” to “normal” to “overweight” to “obese” (yes, it uses the “O” word.) The arrow zooms up and down this range and then it lands somewhere. For instance, if you are ME, it lands on OBESE. According to that rat bastard the Wii Fit, I’m OBESE! And then, just to show you who’s boss the damn thing takes your mii and MAKES IT FAT! Like “First I call you names, fatty-fatty-fat-fat, and then I make your Mii my bitch! Next I’m going to have your Mii eat a bunch of Twinkies and drink an entire Big Gulp! You are FAAAAAAT!”
And does it stop there? Oh no! The festival of abuse is only half-through! (I’m telling you this so that you can weigh your options before you step on the magical pad. Sure, virtual hoola hoops SOUNDS fun, but is it worth the mind games and manipulation? IS IT???) Next the Wii Fit makes you do this balance test where you sway and lean and bend over and I KNOW that there are scores of robot cameras flying around the country filming people doing this in their living rooms for some robo-gag reel that our robot overlords will watch at the Christmas party after they take over the world! Once the balance thing is done if you didn’t balance just right it MOCKS YOU! “Do you find you trip when you walk?” DO YOU FIND MY FOOT UP YOUR WII ASS???
After all of this there’s still one more super-awesome part: your Wii Fit Age. In other words, “now that I’ve told you that you’re both fat and also clumsy, I’m gonna top it off by calling you old before your time. Also I’ll ask if you wore that shirt in public and make you spell endocrine.”
Get this: my friends are both in better shape than I am in real life, and neither of them were honored with the “obese” title, and yet their Wii Fit ages were OLDER than they were, while mine was YOUNGER. And the only thing with which I had more success was the balance test. The message I took from this was “young people have good balance.” Which I KNOW is not true, because the youngest person I know is Princess Long Toes and she is SUPER easy to knock over! Heck, just give her a tiny nudge and she’ll fall right on her ass! She can’t even WALK! So I fear I must call shenanigans on the Wii Fit for that.
Where was I? Oh yeah, fat but with fabulous balance. (by the way, a quality I’m sure most men are really looking for. I’ve already added it to my profile on the free man-attracting website: “not slim, but exceptional balance. Will consider yoga positions during sex!”)
After ALL of this you get to do the Wii Fit stuff, and this is the worst part of all: it’s super-cool! Seriously! There are BUNCHES of things and they’re challenging and fun and yet they really do seem like they’re fit-inducing! Not just aerobic stuff (which we all knew was coming once we worked up a major sweat boxing virtual-dude with the Wii Sports) but also balance stuff (let us all bow our head for a moment of silence for my friend who plummeted to her death off of the tight rope. Like 6 times…) and yoga stuff and strength stuff… Like I think this could make sit-ups actually fun. And I HATE sit-ups!
In the end, even though I felt like I was being hazed for the first 20 minutes, the Wii Fit is still something that I covet and envy and super-want. Now if you will excuse me, I’m going to go walk around the house with a book on my head to give me a feeling of superiority. Obese, well-balanced superiority.
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