It seems I do not respond well to being punched in the head.
I know. Weird, right?
My gym recently imported a boxing instructor straight from South America. Apparently, he is some kind of high-faluten professional fighter. Well whoop dee doo buddy. Don't you know you're not supposed to hit women? We have all kinds of crazy laws about that. Folks also get wildly bent out of shape when you beat children.
Yeah, we're really no fun at all.
As one might suspect, in boxing classes at my gym, we generally only hit the bags (just to be clear "bags" is not code for "each other's heads"). That concept was lost on the South American. He wandered around the room inspecting our combinations and shouting in heavy Spanglish. Then, for reasons probably related to Karma, he singled me out and ordered me to do the combination on his mitts.
This is where we come to the "oh crap" portion of my day. I can be quite outgoing at times, but I abhor being singled out and watched. My terror was interrupted by "Heet! Heet the hands!" as the South American nodded to his mitts. So I heet. And just after my second cross...right before the left hook...a mitt snapped out and whacked me upside the head. HARD.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
The Day the Weather Got Biblical on My Ass
We had a little weather fiasco today...storms, hail, lighting, tornadoes, flooding...I was waiting for locusts and 7 horsemen, but alas, it seems God may not be tired of us just yet.
My typically level-headed father, bless his heart, was freaking the fu@k out. I think this sprung from the fact that he was at home in Florida watching DVDs of the TV show "24". It just had him all wired up. He was alternately watching the show, monitoring the weather satellite on his laptop, and speed-dialing me to make sure I was okay and give me updated information. I wanted to tell him if I needed an update, I could just turn my head to the left. It's all right there out my window.
But I decided not to burst his adrenaline-laced bubble.
So he calls about a half-hour into tornado warning #94 to tell me I need to "get downstairs, pronto!". I live on the second (and top) floor of the most shoddily constructed apartment building you've ever seen. No, seriously. Two weeks ago part of one of the concrete steps literally crumbled beneath my feet as I went downstairs. I may not be as lean as I once was, but this is supposed to be CONCRETE. Naturally, my Father now wanted as much shoddy construction as humanly possible between me and a swirling, sucking, 150MPH vortex.
I decided to call my friendly apartment managers and inquire after our Disaster Plan. Every building in Texas has a designated "shelter", but I've been remiss in asking about ours. Do you know what our Assistant Manager, Jeannie, said when I called? She told me to get to know my downstairs neighbor. THAT'S your plan, lady? Make new friends?? That's a Girl Scout motto, not a plan! You only get to call it a "Plan" if it requires 5 or more minutes of dedicated thought.
Jesus. It's going to be a long Spring in tornado alley.
Not surprisingly, my phone call with Jeannie was interrupted by another directive from my very alert father. "Get upstairs! You need to get upstairs now! I've been watching the satellite, and it's the flooding that's going to be your biggest problem! Flooding is what kills the most people!" I let him know that, while I appreciate the statistics, I am a fine swimmer. It's the flying I'm not so good at. Think I'll take my chances down low.
Did I mention I miss home? I can handle a little rockin' and rollin'. It's being sucked up by a giant Hoover and deposited somewhere east of the Mississippi I can't hack.
My typically level-headed father, bless his heart, was freaking the fu@k out. I think this sprung from the fact that he was at home in Florida watching DVDs of the TV show "24". It just had him all wired up. He was alternately watching the show, monitoring the weather satellite on his laptop, and speed-dialing me to make sure I was okay and give me updated information. I wanted to tell him if I needed an update, I could just turn my head to the left. It's all right there out my window.
But I decided not to burst his adrenaline-laced bubble.
So he calls about a half-hour into tornado warning #94 to tell me I need to "get downstairs, pronto!". I live on the second (and top) floor of the most shoddily constructed apartment building you've ever seen. No, seriously. Two weeks ago part of one of the concrete steps literally crumbled beneath my feet as I went downstairs. I may not be as lean as I once was, but this is supposed to be CONCRETE. Naturally, my Father now wanted as much shoddy construction as humanly possible between me and a swirling, sucking, 150MPH vortex.
I decided to call my friendly apartment managers and inquire after our Disaster Plan. Every building in Texas has a designated "shelter", but I've been remiss in asking about ours. Do you know what our Assistant Manager, Jeannie, said when I called? She told me to get to know my downstairs neighbor. THAT'S your plan, lady? Make new friends?? That's a Girl Scout motto, not a plan! You only get to call it a "Plan" if it requires 5 or more minutes of dedicated thought.
Jesus. It's going to be a long Spring in tornado alley.
Not surprisingly, my phone call with Jeannie was interrupted by another directive from my very alert father. "Get upstairs! You need to get upstairs now! I've been watching the satellite, and it's the flooding that's going to be your biggest problem! Flooding is what kills the most people!" I let him know that, while I appreciate the statistics, I am a fine swimmer. It's the flying I'm not so good at. Think I'll take my chances down low.
Did I mention I miss home? I can handle a little rockin' and rollin'. It's being sucked up by a giant Hoover and deposited somewhere east of the Mississippi I can't hack.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
I'll Have One McDoucheBag and a Diet Coke, Please
I was going to go on a date with the Snowboarder. Really.
Well, technically we were going on a hike. So I guess it was more of an activity likely to include flirting…then again, if one of us turned out to be significantly more beastly than the other, likely not.
I stalled until the very last moment to get ready. Of course. That’s my ingenious way of ratcheting down the pressure. Don’t think about the date, don’t fuss over it. Which works well until the very last moment when I realize I have forgotten about it and am about to be late. Then pressure hits critical mass and I fly around the house trying on layered clothing, random beanies from 1995, and other bizarre items that have no place on a first date – or really anywhere in 2008. All the while I frantically send text messages that I’m stuck in traffic, whilst chugging down coffee, and hunting for the last lint-covered piece of gum in my purse. Makeup happens in the car (sorry fellow drivers! I'm that woman!). By the time I arrive I’m flushed red, getting honked at and flipped the bird by other drivers, and I’m a complete mental circus.
Yet somehow, this whole routine persists.
My sister said something profound to me the other night. Profound in the way only a sister can say, in the way you immediately tell her to fu@k off, but then realize she’s right and you’re an idiot and you’d better pay attention. I lamented my struggle with Mr. Ohio, to which she said, “Hang on, Mr. Ohio? I thought we were done with him?”
I sighed and relayed the new developments. Told her about my epiphanies and revelations. “He’s a great guy and I like him. Do you know how rare that is? Can’t it work out for me, just this once? Why does it have to be so difficult and painful?”
I could literally hear the roll of her eyes. It was as if I was a kindergartner, she was my teacher and I was eating Playdough. Again. “When you’re ready to be done with this, you will be. You’ll stop wasting time. You’ll spend 6 seconds on Mr. Ohio and realize he’s a douche bag…not 6 months.”
Hey, screw you. It’s not as simple as that…I really LIKE him, and we click…
Oh.
Shit.
Hang on a minute. Something got caught in my mental wheels - a little fiber of good sense. I don’t like it, but nonetheless, it glows with real-ness like the headlights of an oncoming truck. Just because I like him, it doesn’t mean he’s not a douche bag. Or at least acting like one, which might as well be the same thing.
Awww crap.
Oprah’s “Aha! Moment" happens. I see flashes of the things I’ve been doing, putting up with, and perpetuating for 6 months. No, for 28 years. Everything becomes so clear. I’ve been choosing this? Well of course I have, or it wouldn’t be happening! I'm free to walk away and date a nice guy who’s totally into me at any moment. But what am I doing? I'm hanging on to this box of broken parts.
Fortunately, once beyond the shame, these thoughts are incredibly empowering. Unfortunately, these thoughts are the precursor to actually having to do something about your shit.
There’s a platitude about holding on to destructive things because they serve a purpose in our lives. It’s not my favorite platitude but, if you’re noticing the trend here, grownup thinking never is. It's the mental and emotional equivalent of eating my vegetables…and I’ve been on a McDonald’s drive-thru diet. Wish me luck, it’s not gonna be fun.
Well, technically we were going on a hike. So I guess it was more of an activity likely to include flirting…then again, if one of us turned out to be significantly more beastly than the other, likely not.
I stalled until the very last moment to get ready. Of course. That’s my ingenious way of ratcheting down the pressure. Don’t think about the date, don’t fuss over it. Which works well until the very last moment when I realize I have forgotten about it and am about to be late. Then pressure hits critical mass and I fly around the house trying on layered clothing, random beanies from 1995, and other bizarre items that have no place on a first date – or really anywhere in 2008. All the while I frantically send text messages that I’m stuck in traffic, whilst chugging down coffee, and hunting for the last lint-covered piece of gum in my purse. Makeup happens in the car (sorry fellow drivers! I'm that woman!). By the time I arrive I’m flushed red, getting honked at and flipped the bird by other drivers, and I’m a complete mental circus.
Yet somehow, this whole routine persists.
My sister said something profound to me the other night. Profound in the way only a sister can say, in the way you immediately tell her to fu@k off, but then realize she’s right and you’re an idiot and you’d better pay attention. I lamented my struggle with Mr. Ohio, to which she said, “Hang on, Mr. Ohio? I thought we were done with him?”
I sighed and relayed the new developments. Told her about my epiphanies and revelations. “He’s a great guy and I like him. Do you know how rare that is? Can’t it work out for me, just this once? Why does it have to be so difficult and painful?”
I could literally hear the roll of her eyes. It was as if I was a kindergartner, she was my teacher and I was eating Playdough. Again. “When you’re ready to be done with this, you will be. You’ll stop wasting time. You’ll spend 6 seconds on Mr. Ohio and realize he’s a douche bag…not 6 months.”
Hey, screw you. It’s not as simple as that…I really LIKE him, and we click…
Oh.
Shit.
Hang on a minute. Something got caught in my mental wheels - a little fiber of good sense. I don’t like it, but nonetheless, it glows with real-ness like the headlights of an oncoming truck. Just because I like him, it doesn’t mean he’s not a douche bag. Or at least acting like one, which might as well be the same thing.
Awww crap.
Oprah’s “Aha! Moment" happens. I see flashes of the things I’ve been doing, putting up with, and perpetuating for 6 months. No, for 28 years. Everything becomes so clear. I’ve been choosing this? Well of course I have, or it wouldn’t be happening! I'm free to walk away and date a nice guy who’s totally into me at any moment. But what am I doing? I'm hanging on to this box of broken parts.
Fortunately, once beyond the shame, these thoughts are incredibly empowering. Unfortunately, these thoughts are the precursor to actually having to do something about your shit.
There’s a platitude about holding on to destructive things because they serve a purpose in our lives. It’s not my favorite platitude but, if you’re noticing the trend here, grownup thinking never is. It's the mental and emotional equivalent of eating my vegetables…and I’ve been on a McDonald’s drive-thru diet. Wish me luck, it’s not gonna be fun.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Snapple Deception
I found myself staring at a Snapple bottle today. I was simply trying to avoid eye contact with my depressed friend, for fear he’d notice my glazed-over expression. Does he really need an audience if he's just going to whine “I don’t understand why she doesn’t care about me!" over and over again?
Look, I don't know! Maybe she doesn't care because you whine like a bit@h. Just suck it up and go sleep with someone else...that’ll show her…
Okay, back to my Snapple. On the front of the bottle was the phrase "Made From the Best Stuff on Earth". Cool, I think. That makes me healthy. And that makes me happy. Because I like drinking Snapple, and it's a damn sight easier than getting on a treadmill.
Sadly, that’s not the conclusion of this story. My curiosity usually leads me down the path of destruction, and this was no exception. I made the mistake of examining the ingredients on the label (because reading words like phenyoynealene was still more interesting than listening to my friend).
I should’ve settled for ignorance.
Do you know what's in this stuff? Of course you don’t! Because if you did, you’d be out picketing Snapple headquarters and beating that tubby Snapple lady with her own arm, instead of reading this. Among the ingredients? Acesulfame potassium sweetener, phenyoynealene, and red dye #12.
I realize with pollution and overpopulation we're depleting the Earth's resources, but is this really the best we can do? Is phenyoynealene the "Best Stuff on Earth"? Doubtful. How many times did Granny call you down to eat your phenyoynealene so you could grow big and strong?
But forget about Snapple, because my brain bounced to something new and equally irritating. Something my sister did last week. Apparently something HUGE was going down at her office that had her stressed out and working overtime. She reported that everyone was up in arms, freaking out over this Big Thing that had happened…but she couldn’t tell me what was. It was top secret. My sister, I should mention, does not work at NASA. Not for the NSA or any other governmental body. She works for a nonprofit foundation that has the classification level of, say, Tele-Tubby Headquarters. Also, my sister tends to think ridiculous things are secrets, like the color she’s planning to paint her kitchen (mauve), or the name she has chosen for her future child (Aubrey). So it’s probably safe to assume the Big Thing is someone in her office stubbing a toe, shouting an expletive, or receiving written discipline from HR.
Problem is, she keeps bringing it up. Every conversation now includes her making reference to this Big Thing…the Toe-Stubbing Fiasco of 2008 or whatever.
She knows me well enough not to share confidential information (see above disclosure of salacious secrets about her kitchen and child). I’m 27 years old and I still ruin my own Christmas every year by peeking at my gifts. I also tell my loved ones what I got them the minute I buy their gift. I have the mental discipline of an orangutan. So don't bring secrets to my doorstep! Tell your stoic, type-A, accountant friend if you want a respectful reaction. Tell your coma-bound Aunt Marge. Tell your lawyer. Tell Oprah. Do not, do not, do not, tell ME.
This is up on my list with folks who say, "hey, can I ask you a question?" They generally execute this move when you’ve not a moment to spare -- at work, where you have to be not only efficient, but nice. (Unless, of course, you work at the Post Office where employees receive bonus pay for each act of asshole-dom...but that's an entirely different category on my list, so let's not digress). Anyway these people walk up, ASKing if they can ASK you a question. Well, you just did, so there's one, dipshit. Got another? Cause the clock is ticking. And hey, if I don’t answer, will you just sit there waiting for me to grant you permission or will you boldly go forth with something resembling an interrogative phrase? How long must this whole process take for you to be satisfied?
Somehow, I manage to get through about 50 questions in my head before they can roll through one out loud. It’s astounding.
And with that, my bitch-fest is over.
Look, I don't know! Maybe she doesn't care because you whine like a bit@h. Just suck it up and go sleep with someone else...that’ll show her…
Okay, back to my Snapple. On the front of the bottle was the phrase "Made From the Best Stuff on Earth". Cool, I think. That makes me healthy. And that makes me happy. Because I like drinking Snapple, and it's a damn sight easier than getting on a treadmill.
Sadly, that’s not the conclusion of this story. My curiosity usually leads me down the path of destruction, and this was no exception. I made the mistake of examining the ingredients on the label (because reading words like phenyoynealene was still more interesting than listening to my friend).
I should’ve settled for ignorance.
Do you know what's in this stuff? Of course you don’t! Because if you did, you’d be out picketing Snapple headquarters and beating that tubby Snapple lady with her own arm, instead of reading this. Among the ingredients? Acesulfame potassium sweetener, phenyoynealene, and red dye #12.
I realize with pollution and overpopulation we're depleting the Earth's resources, but is this really the best we can do? Is phenyoynealene the "Best Stuff on Earth"? Doubtful. How many times did Granny call you down to eat your phenyoynealene so you could grow big and strong?
But forget about Snapple, because my brain bounced to something new and equally irritating. Something my sister did last week. Apparently something HUGE was going down at her office that had her stressed out and working overtime. She reported that everyone was up in arms, freaking out over this Big Thing that had happened…but she couldn’t tell me what was. It was top secret. My sister, I should mention, does not work at NASA. Not for the NSA or any other governmental body. She works for a nonprofit foundation that has the classification level of, say, Tele-Tubby Headquarters. Also, my sister tends to think ridiculous things are secrets, like the color she’s planning to paint her kitchen (mauve), or the name she has chosen for her future child (Aubrey). So it’s probably safe to assume the Big Thing is someone in her office stubbing a toe, shouting an expletive, or receiving written discipline from HR.
Problem is, she keeps bringing it up. Every conversation now includes her making reference to this Big Thing…the Toe-Stubbing Fiasco of 2008 or whatever.
She knows me well enough not to share confidential information (see above disclosure of salacious secrets about her kitchen and child). I’m 27 years old and I still ruin my own Christmas every year by peeking at my gifts. I also tell my loved ones what I got them the minute I buy their gift. I have the mental discipline of an orangutan. So don't bring secrets to my doorstep! Tell your stoic, type-A, accountant friend if you want a respectful reaction. Tell your coma-bound Aunt Marge. Tell your lawyer. Tell Oprah. Do not, do not, do not, tell ME.
This is up on my list with folks who say, "hey, can I ask you a question?" They generally execute this move when you’ve not a moment to spare -- at work, where you have to be not only efficient, but nice. (Unless, of course, you work at the Post Office where employees receive bonus pay for each act of asshole-dom...but that's an entirely different category on my list, so let's not digress). Anyway these people walk up, ASKing if they can ASK you a question. Well, you just did, so there's one, dipshit. Got another? Cause the clock is ticking. And hey, if I don’t answer, will you just sit there waiting for me to grant you permission or will you boldly go forth with something resembling an interrogative phrase? How long must this whole process take for you to be satisfied?
Somehow, I manage to get through about 50 questions in my head before they can roll through one out loud. It’s astounding.
And with that, my bitch-fest is over.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Satan's Dress Shop
Oh my God, I've been sent to Hell.
Except the sign at the entrance says Clara's Brides*. And here, Satan is a very stout, pushy woman who keeps yanking me out of my dressing room to a giant fun-house mirror, where she pokes at me and observes that the dresses are too tight. Oh really? I hadn't noticed. I'm turning purple and I just cracked two ribs, but thank you Master of the Obvious for discerning the problem.
The problem being that my rib cage is the size of a Roman War God's.
I'm sure at some point in my ancestor's history, large rib cages served a purpose (although what that purpose was, I cannot imagine). Here in the 21st Century, in a bridal store where all dresses are manufactured for Teri Hatcher, it is not so helpful.
Satan only carries sample sizes so I'm pretty much shit out of luck. Did I mention there's a heat wave, and Hell has no air conditioning? So now I'm sweating through the dresses like some kind of farm animal as I struggle in and out of torturous tea-length garments. All the while, the little woman drags me from dressing room to mirror and back, muttering "this one doesn't fit you either. You're much larger than you appear."
Horrendous colors I can live with. Big bows? Bring it. Hell, I'd dress like a circus clown if that's what my friend wanted. The only thing I ask is not to be stuffed in a dress like it's sausage casing.
I remember hearing somewhere that Raquel Welch had ribs removed to shrink her waistline. At the time it struck me as ridiculous. Standing in Satan's dressing room, it suddenly sounded brilliant.
But I've got to get a grip. This wedding has been a long time coming and I've committed to selflessness. She deserves to have a wonderful wedding from start to finish. That means everything from the perfect proposal, to a gorgeous location, to the exquisite folding of each individual dinner napkin. Besides, what kind of person worries more about a dress than her friend's biggest moment? Certainly not the person I want to be. I want to live in the moment, treat people with care, and prioritize things that are truly valuable.
I'm teetering on the edge of failure. But I'll be damned if these little torture units of chiffon and taffeta are going to beat me.
I beat my tears back, turned to the little fat woman and said, "you need to stop talking." It was either hurt this woman's feelings or ruin my friend's day with a mental breakdown. The little lady opened her mouth to protest, but I interrupted "No seriously. You need to stop speaking entirely."
Patrons stared and the little fat lady was silent for a long moment. Then something magical happened. She shut her mouth and walked away. Know what? I suddenly felt a hell of a lot better. The dress even got looser. Maybe I'm not the nicest person to everyone, but I think it's okay to start with my friend. I'll worry about everyone else later.
Except the sign at the entrance says Clara's Brides*. And here, Satan is a very stout, pushy woman who keeps yanking me out of my dressing room to a giant fun-house mirror, where she pokes at me and observes that the dresses are too tight. Oh really? I hadn't noticed. I'm turning purple and I just cracked two ribs, but thank you Master of the Obvious for discerning the problem.
The problem being that my rib cage is the size of a Roman War God's.
I'm sure at some point in my ancestor's history, large rib cages served a purpose (although what that purpose was, I cannot imagine). Here in the 21st Century, in a bridal store where all dresses are manufactured for Teri Hatcher, it is not so helpful.
Satan only carries sample sizes so I'm pretty much shit out of luck. Did I mention there's a heat wave, and Hell has no air conditioning? So now I'm sweating through the dresses like some kind of farm animal as I struggle in and out of torturous tea-length garments. All the while, the little woman drags me from dressing room to mirror and back, muttering "this one doesn't fit you either. You're much larger than you appear."
Horrendous colors I can live with. Big bows? Bring it. Hell, I'd dress like a circus clown if that's what my friend wanted. The only thing I ask is not to be stuffed in a dress like it's sausage casing.
I remember hearing somewhere that Raquel Welch had ribs removed to shrink her waistline. At the time it struck me as ridiculous. Standing in Satan's dressing room, it suddenly sounded brilliant.
But I've got to get a grip. This wedding has been a long time coming and I've committed to selflessness. She deserves to have a wonderful wedding from start to finish. That means everything from the perfect proposal, to a gorgeous location, to the exquisite folding of each individual dinner napkin. Besides, what kind of person worries more about a dress than her friend's biggest moment? Certainly not the person I want to be. I want to live in the moment, treat people with care, and prioritize things that are truly valuable.
I'm teetering on the edge of failure. But I'll be damned if these little torture units of chiffon and taffeta are going to beat me.
I beat my tears back, turned to the little fat woman and said, "you need to stop talking." It was either hurt this woman's feelings or ruin my friend's day with a mental breakdown. The little lady opened her mouth to protest, but I interrupted "No seriously. You need to stop speaking entirely."
Patrons stared and the little fat lady was silent for a long moment. Then something magical happened. She shut her mouth and walked away. Know what? I suddenly felt a hell of a lot better. The dress even got looser. Maybe I'm not the nicest person to everyone, but I think it's okay to start with my friend. I'll worry about everyone else later.
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