Men,
When a woman has come to the gym to work out, she has come to work out. She is not there to find a husband, get your phone number, or to be gaped at like an exotic circus animal. Being that you have on your skin tight Affliction shirt and will have no doubt shaved your legs to try and make them look bigger, it is obvious that you are obsessed with looks. Women, however, are obsessed with how they feel about themselves, if they feel beautiful and desirable. She has mustered all her courage to go wrestle her demons at this place called the gym knowing that her every move will be poured over by your slack jawed, deer in the headlights gaze. She knows she will have to work out amongst males who make the free weight area smell like a hamster cage because the women's room was no doubt created by one of your kind since only contains mood lighting and big balls. And as if enduring your foul odor isn't enough, you watch her. You wait for her. You stalk her from machine to machine. You grunt while giving yourself a hernia, straining under the weight of your pride. You pretend to need her bench or even worse, assume we would want to share one with you. You wait in the whirlpool for her swim to be done, hoping she may join you and your swirling back hair. You offer her your personal training services. This is not a petting zoo and if we need a personal trainer, we'll pay for one.
Please note. We watch your eyes. We feel those eyes praying that we will don an elliptical machine for a half hours worth of bouncing away the calories. We see you spying on us during crunches hoping for a glimpse of our girlfriend Victoria. We can see the fantasy play out in your head as you watch us struggle, toil and labor our way to contentment. We also see you walking around as if your Jockey's are a bit too tight and your shirt noticeably too small. We see all your gear from Nike, Adidas, and Under Armor and also notice you're lifting the same weight as us. We notice when you brick on the basketball court and when you can't swim a lap. We notice your drive by of the women's facility, even amongst all those balls in that dim light. So when you see us cock a half smile or bestow a little giggle, we are not attempting to flirt, call your attention, or solicit your advancement. We are merely laughing at you. Let it be your own personal sentinel telling you to run away little man, run away. Humiliation is near.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Doomsday, Ladies, Doomsday
Yes ladies. Today was THAT day. I wore a skirt, cotton undies and showered twice. I know you feel my unease. I spent most of my day dreading being the starring role in the one act play known as "The Lady Hamper" going down at the Kooder Barn Theatre that afternoon. (For the ignorant and the male, that's code for taking a trip to the vagina doctor) Which is ironic being that I am going back to school to be a gyno. I guess there are some things you just never get used to.
The annual gynecologist visit is, in fact, very much like an old western starring the patient as some sort of weird, nude Annie Oakley. You even get a spotlight, just in all the wrong places. You've got the doctor wielding all sorts of weapons and some sort of thing that looks like an old metal gun. Or at least it can sure scare any woman like an old (and cold) metal gun. You even get the costume: the vest with the big skirt. I remember the good old days where you got an actual hospital gown and a freshly laundered sheet. Now they've gone all cheap and all you get is that ever awkward waxed paper vest and tarp that's made out of the same crap as that bib the dentist puts on you. That thing never stays in place and has armholes big enough to flash your milk wagons to everyone in the restaurant across the street. And no matter how little you move, it sounds like that plastic mattress pad you used to roll around on when you were a toilet training toddler. Come to think of it, dentist tools and gyno tools kinda look the same....yikes.
Anyway, just like any western movie, it has its usual western plot line. Annie came to town to make sure it was still safe. She was grappled and wounded by Gyno the Kid and her sidekick Chastity (except today I think her name was Vicki). And despite her wounded pride and slightly bruised dignity, our heroine held her head high and managed to remain victorious with her daring feats and acts of bravery.... by getting a pap smear so her insurance company would reward her with a check for taking preventative measures against her uterus falling apart. The End!
The annual gynecologist visit is, in fact, very much like an old western starring the patient as some sort of weird, nude Annie Oakley. You even get a spotlight, just in all the wrong places. You've got the doctor wielding all sorts of weapons and some sort of thing that looks like an old metal gun. Or at least it can sure scare any woman like an old (and cold) metal gun. You even get the costume: the vest with the big skirt. I remember the good old days where you got an actual hospital gown and a freshly laundered sheet. Now they've gone all cheap and all you get is that ever awkward waxed paper vest and tarp that's made out of the same crap as that bib the dentist puts on you. That thing never stays in place and has armholes big enough to flash your milk wagons to everyone in the restaurant across the street. And no matter how little you move, it sounds like that plastic mattress pad you used to roll around on when you were a toilet training toddler. Come to think of it, dentist tools and gyno tools kinda look the same....yikes.
Anyway, just like any western movie, it has its usual western plot line. Annie came to town to make sure it was still safe. She was grappled and wounded by Gyno the Kid and her sidekick Chastity (except today I think her name was Vicki). And despite her wounded pride and slightly bruised dignity, our heroine held her head high and managed to remain victorious with her daring feats and acts of bravery.... by getting a pap smear so her insurance company would reward her with a check for taking preventative measures against her uterus falling apart. The End!
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Does your butt feel like it's waving at people?
Being a semi-pro cheerleader, I have to be in the gym at least semi of the time. But I like to go a lot. It makes me feel good to know I've busted some of the fat deposits in my love handles. But nothing really chaps me more than the girl popping diet pills, whining about how she never has time to work out and eating a whole wheat bagel doused in half a tub of light cream cheese because she eats healthy for the most part, right? People prioritize what they want to. So on that note, while I'm procrastinating grading papers, I wanted to give women my list of the do's and don'ts of the gym.
Wanna actually make a dent in those thunder thighs?
Do's and Don'ts:- Come with your iPod charged and with songs that actually motivate you. Playing with your iPod throughout your workout does not excuse you from actually working out.
- Sweat. Push yourself. I love the women that come to workout and they get to their third rep or 1.5 minutes into their fast walk and give up because it hurts. Of course it hurts. That's the feeling of e-x-e-r-c-i-s-e. The last time you used that muscle or joint was to pick up the 6000 calorie macadamia nut cookie with marshmallow creme filling you called five second rule on.
- Pick up a weight. Not one that has a single digit on it. It must have two numbers, like ten. My favorite gal at the gym has it all: yoga pants, the skin tight Affliction t-shirt, Nike Shocks, huge fake boobs and weightlifting gloves. And she's lifting 8 lb. weights 65 times. Your purse weighs more than 8 pounds, empty. Here's a tip: lift some REAL weight if you want to lose some serious fat deposits. You know the kind that actually makes you feel fatigued and like you maybe moved a little. It's no secret that toned muscle tissue sends your fat-burning metabolism into another dimension. You don't have to be the Incredible Hulk to do it either.
- Change it up. If you're still a flabby carcass doing the same workout that worked for you in high school, figure it out. Times have changed and so has your metabolism. You're aging. Act like it and work out like it.
- Plateau? Are you giving muscles a challenge by doing different moves? When you're bored, you do nothing. When your muscles are bored, they do nothing either.
- Do not bring your cell phone to the gym. If you're that desperate for attention that you can't leave your phone for an hour to give your side boobs some love, you need Dr. Phil, not a health club. Tonight, I saw a chick doing leg extensions. She was lifting an ever impressive 5 pounds and texting the entire time. You should see her thighs. Man they're hot..... a hot freakin mess.
- Holy crap. There's the lady on the elliptical who is moving so slowly it doesn't even registe
r on the machine. She's too absorbed watching the HGTV channel to know that she's burning more calories in her mind learning how to Flip That House than her legs are combined. My dead grandmother moves faster. If you're gonna show up, at least pretend to work out. - Do not wrap yourself in Saran wrap. It does not help.
- Don't eat a loaf of whole grain bread, a bag of lima beans and half a chicken because all of a sudden you're hungry from working out. You deserve it, right? WRONG. You deserve a pimp slap for not having any self control and for ruining the one workout you did this week. Eat less food more often. And put down that damn brownie.
Listen, many people have asked what I do to keep myself in shape. That's not an arrogant statement. It's a humbling compliment with a harsh answer: I WORK HARD FOR IT. And so does that other girl you wish you could be. If you want to be fit like you have never been, you muscles have to do what they've never done. So... hi ho, hi ho, it's off to Zumba we go......
MEN: You're not off the hook. You've got another thing coming, Julia Sugarbaker style. Most of you are tools at the gym. You're efforts and gawking are not appreciated and are mostly laughable. We'll talk more about that later. I have to go grade papers.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
I am a mud squirting slug.
As stated in my debut of this locale, I currently feel like sloppy wet flesh bag thanks to many factors in my daily life and I promised you an explanation. So here it is. I really like being active… busy…. involved…. effective. But this is just ridiculous.
One cause of my sluggishness is that I teach fourteen and fifteen year olds in a school of 2400. Not a district, but one single building of 2400 ninth and tenth graders. It is a virtual circus of confused identity, misdirected sexual energies and body odor. My job is hard. It’s tedious and tiresome. That’s why I get two months of vacation a year. But within the past few years, we’ve also started jumping through flaming hoops like a yipping show poodle in a clown suit to please the peanut gallery we formally call the government. But then you also have the powers that be. Those who have the official job of conjuring up brainless deeds for you to execute which detract from the job you’re trying to do for some purpose that you couldn’t fathom even if you had the intuition of Confucius himself. This year has been the worst. Ever. In all of my nine years of teaching. For instance, we’re no longer allowed to give zeros. Doesn’t matter if the kid sits on his ars and draws his name in gangster font all over the assignment he’s not doing, I can’t give him a zero. Rationale: “It gives the student a sense of failure, seeing that zero. Students will feel as if they don’t have options and that there is no hope of being a success.” Seriously?!? On that rationale, can I skip work and keep my job? I don’t want to feel like a failure but I really don’t want to be here. On that note, I’d also like to get paid for being gone. Oh- and keep my health insurance. Does this mean I am successful?
Needless to say, I feel like a little emaciated pack mule teetering on the rim of a menacing gorge carrying Louie Anderson on his 45th trip of the day to the candy store.
I can’t discipline a student. I can’t give him a zero. All must make the team. No one can be held personally responsible. I can’t fail him for not showing up, not doing work, or being truant. You can sell drugs under my tables in class and get assigned 45 days of In-School Suspension and I have to make up alternative assignments for everyone of those 45 days to make sure that they are still “successful” just so they can get out on good behavior twelve days later. What are we preparing our kids for? Prison?
One cause of my sluggishness is that I teach fourteen and fifteen year olds in a school of 2400. Not a district, but one single building of 2400 ninth and tenth graders. It is a virtual circus of confused identity, misdirected sexual energies and body odor. My job is hard. It’s tedious and tiresome. That’s why I get two months of vacation a year. But within the past few years, we’ve also started jumping through flaming hoops like a yipping show poodle in a clown suit to please the peanut gallery we formally call the government. But then you also have the powers that be. Those who have the official job of conjuring up brainless deeds for you to execute which detract from the job you’re trying to do for some purpose that you couldn’t fathom even if you had the intuition of Confucius himself. This year has been the worst. Ever. In all of my nine years of teaching. For instance, we’re no longer allowed to give zeros. Doesn’t matter if the kid sits on his ars and draws his name in gangster font all over the assignment he’s not doing, I can’t give him a zero. Rationale: “It gives the student a sense of failure, seeing that zero. Students will feel as if they don’t have options and that there is no hope of being a success.” Seriously?!? On that rationale, can I skip work and keep my job? I don’t want to feel like a failure but I really don’t want to be here. On that note, I’d also like to get paid for being gone. Oh- and keep my health insurance. Does this mean I am successful?
Needless to say, I feel like a little emaciated pack mule teetering on the rim of a menacing gorge carrying Louie Anderson on his 45th trip of the day to the candy store.
I can’t discipline a student. I can’t give him a zero. All must make the team. No one can be held personally responsible. I can’t fail him for not showing up, not doing work, or being truant. You can sell drugs under my tables in class and get assigned 45 days of In-School Suspension and I have to make up alternative assignments for everyone of those 45 days to make sure that they are still “successful” just so they can get out on good behavior twelve days later. What are we preparing our kids for? Prison?
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Man, I Feel Like a Woman, Part Deux
Why it's hard being a woman:
1) Breast sweat. Whether you have honeydews, cherries or bananas, we’ve all been there: you step into your car in the late afternoon in mid July and instantly your breasts begin to form two industrial sized pools of sweat that soaks into your polysynthetic bra and grips your jugs like an octopus. And although your AC is able to dry a salty crust on your hairline, it is no match for your dripping bosoms. Nothing short of the Santa Ana’s or maybe a NASA wind tunnel is gonna dry that wet-nap of an over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder out until you peel it off like a self-adhesive name tag. Your beautiful bosom becomes a horrific distraction for any run-in with a near-future conversationalist as you have a constellation of sweat-beads marking the direct center of your blouse. Here’s to wet boobs.
2) Your portal to the dimension of groundless reality. I have a theory that as women we have a fontanel that never fully closes shut after birth. It is within this gap in our skulls that we seem to take harmless misunderstandings and self-conscious thoughts and turn them into psychosomatic altered realities that seem oddly realistic to us. It generates within the fontanel then pulsates outward forming a force shield of irrationality. Did he not call one night? Next thing you know, he is a womanizing, narcissistic, future wife beating butt hole that is really calling his ex-girlfriend and quoting Shakespeare to her; you just know it. So we begin to eat a pint of Chocolate Chocolate and More Chocolate ice cream and a slab of ribs, watch The Notebook, write how beautiful we are in L’Oreal Homewrecker Red lipstick on our bathroom mirrors to constantly remind us until morning that we indeed have HUGE insecurity issues, call our mothers and whine to her about not being able to find a good man and that we’re going out first thing tomorrow and finding the hottest guy in his office and going to take him on a lunch date in front of his face, then cry ourselves to sleep because Maybelline obviously lied when they told us we were worth it. And this line of thought, to us, is totally rational. Acceptable, even. When in reality, he was stuck in an airport during a lay-over and didn’t have cell phone reception. He got home at 1:30 AM and decided not to call you because he knew it would piss you off and then he’d be in trouble again. And what does he get for the lack of 3G network and a good dose of courtesy? A psycho hose beast.
3) You never can beat the panic from that warm, wet underwear feeling from an unexpected period in the middle of a long, boring meeting on the day you wore a khaki skirt and your expensive Victoria’s Secret panties. Or better yet, the mania-induced psychosis from a raging yeast infection that you dread having to cure with dripping over the counter goo and an overnight sized maxi pad that you have to wear to work ALL DAY LONG. Or how about a good old dose of bite-the-head-off-the-pimply-kid-running-the-drive-thru-because-he-only-gave-you-one-packet-of-ranch PMS? I prefer the look of my muffin top bulging over my “fat pants” for the entire week surrounding my period. GOD BLESS HORMONES or I guess none of us would be here.
1) Breast sweat. Whether you have honeydews, cherries or bananas, we’ve all been there: you step into your car in the late afternoon in mid July and instantly your breasts begin to form two industrial sized pools of sweat that soaks into your polysynthetic bra and grips your jugs like an octopus. And although your AC is able to dry a salty crust on your hairline, it is no match for your dripping bosoms. Nothing short of the Santa Ana’s or maybe a NASA wind tunnel is gonna dry that wet-nap of an over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder out until you peel it off like a self-adhesive name tag. Your beautiful bosom becomes a horrific distraction for any run-in with a near-future conversationalist as you have a constellation of sweat-beads marking the direct center of your blouse. Here’s to wet boobs.
2) Your portal to the dimension of groundless reality. I have a theory that as women we have a fontanel that never fully closes shut after birth. It is within this gap in our skulls that we seem to take harmless misunderstandings and self-conscious thoughts and turn them into psychosomatic altered realities that seem oddly realistic to us. It generates within the fontanel then pulsates outward forming a force shield of irrationality. Did he not call one night? Next thing you know, he is a womanizing, narcissistic, future wife beating butt hole that is really calling his ex-girlfriend and quoting Shakespeare to her; you just know it. So we begin to eat a pint of Chocolate Chocolate and More Chocolate ice cream and a slab of ribs, watch The Notebook, write how beautiful we are in L’Oreal Homewrecker Red lipstick on our bathroom mirrors to constantly remind us until morning that we indeed have HUGE insecurity issues, call our mothers and whine to her about not being able to find a good man and that we’re going out first thing tomorrow and finding the hottest guy in his office and going to take him on a lunch date in front of his face, then cry ourselves to sleep because Maybelline obviously lied when they told us we were worth it. And this line of thought, to us, is totally rational. Acceptable, even. When in reality, he was stuck in an airport during a lay-over and didn’t have cell phone reception. He got home at 1:30 AM and decided not to call you because he knew it would piss you off and then he’d be in trouble again. And what does he get for the lack of 3G network and a good dose of courtesy? A psycho hose beast.
3) You never can beat the panic from that warm, wet underwear feeling from an unexpected period in the middle of a long, boring meeting on the day you wore a khaki skirt and your expensive Victoria’s Secret panties. Or better yet, the mania-induced psychosis from a raging yeast infection that you dread having to cure with dripping over the counter goo and an overnight sized maxi pad that you have to wear to work ALL DAY LONG. Or how about a good old dose of bite-the-head-off-the-pimply-kid-running-the-drive-thru-because-he-only-gave-you-one-packet-of-ranch PMS? I prefer the look of my muffin top bulging over my “fat pants” for the entire week surrounding my period. GOD BLESS HORMONES or I guess none of us would be here.
Beneficial Misgivings from the Male Gender
How many times have you said, "I can't believe I dated that." Or there's the ever popular, "What did I see in him???" My personal mantra is, "Those were difficult times." There aren't enough appendages on any woman to fulfill the body count of incompatibilities we've encountered. Most of these atrocious blunders would cause us to liquefy into a pool of humiliation if anyone knew the truth of all the rubbish we let ourselves endure. However, if we look back, these faux pas have shaped who we are as women and how we contribute to ourselves and to the world today. So I choose to look upon my dating bungles as a blessing; as one big musical montage like one seen on Americas Funniest Home Videos. I prefer mine to be set to the Anvil Chorus.
In high school, I dated a quarterback/ballerina who told me my best friend looked better in my clothes than I did and another guy who used his late father's inheritance money to buy a truck with super swampers. The third guy I dated used to sleep with his hands in his pants. Even during public naps on the couch.
College didn't fair much better. I revoltingly learned that one guy would put his trash into the drywall of his fraternity house. There was also a blind date turned boyfriend whose name was Leslie and his two best friends were Shay and Blair. In my head, I was thinking he might know how to treat a woman since he and all his friends had women's names. Not so much. However, he did know how to treat a beer and a plate of Mexican food. He was a pathological liar and went back to his ex-girlfriend after dating me for almost a year. At this very dark season in my life, I found myself back in the presence of Mr. Sleepy Handsy Pants until I found out he was sleeping with his hands in the pants of a 19 year-old who lived up the street from my parents. So I rebounded like the Knick's starting center right back to Liar Leslie. He was still Liar Leslie except for a few extra pounds and an alcohol problem and was, of course, secretly still dating the ex. This time, I left many of his valuable things on his front porch when I left. During a thunderstorm. While he was at work.
If high school was a paper cut and college was a kitchen accident, then post college was like a bloody triage center somewhere near the Texas chainsaw massacre. I dated one 30 year-old guy when I was 24 who once brought me back a gift from a 2 week long trip to Colorado because he thought it was funny: a beef stick the size of a Vienna sausage in a package that labeled it "The Little Chub." That, my friend, is what we call a bright red beaming little flag. It was for the best anyway. I didn't like how his earlobes attached to his neck. That and he was sleeping with his ex-girlfriend. Did I mention I'm not an ex-girlfriend fan? Another boyfriend had a guy pass out on his couch who promptly peed on the couch. He took it outside, febreezed it off, sun dried it and put it back in house. Hygiene issues just can't be tolerated. That and his ex-girlfriend tried to beat me up at the bowling alley. Criers are abhorrent. I had one cry because I had a bad day at work. I'm not into other women so I got creeped out and left him like a bad habit. Being that these lovelies were such prizes, I tried dating someone who was heavily involved in the church. I instantly knew he was definitely not "the one" when he told me that he doesn't sin- except for pre-marital sex- and that a deal breaker for him was that his future wife must have fake boobs. He stood me up on Valentines Day so I cyberstalked him on MySpace just to find out he too was dating a 19 year-old. Then came the last in a long line of esteem deprication. Where to begin? This gem was hung up on what? His ex-girlfriend. He had pre-emergent man boobs and sported a pair of Crocs on a daily basis. He loved the Oakridge Boys and 1986 porn videos that I unexpectedly and horrifically extracted one day from his VCR while attempting to watch Three Amigos. My mom told me I was interested in him just because he wore a suit. I hate it when moms are right.
Now to be fair, all of these guys turned into very decent, respecatble men, most of whom have found very beautiful and wonderful women who are great for them in every way. I tip my hat to all of them for the help with personal growth. With that said, along the way, I have figured out the cause of the disaster: Hurricane Me. As Dr. Phil says, "What's the common denominator here?" I put up with so much crap while obviously and literally scraping the bottom of the barrel, desperately looking for validation from someone who could never give it to me anyway. Turns out, God blessed me with this abundance of graceless indignity for one reason: to show me that only His opinion of me mattered. He wholloped me in the dollop so that I could be a person of significance to myself. He is my Redeemer and makes me worth it. And bonus- he's into hygiene.
So what do I need in a man? One who sees what He does and treasures it. One who is ok with the fact that I am ok with myself with or without him. One who is ok with him not being responsible for my happiness. That, ladies, is the prefect man. Hello, Ryan.
In high school, I dated a quarterback/ballerina who told me my best friend looked better in my clothes than I did and another guy who used his late father's inheritance money to buy a truck with super swampers. The third guy I dated used to sleep with his hands in his pants. Even during public naps on the couch.
College didn't fair much better. I revoltingly learned that one guy would put his trash into the drywall of his fraternity house. There was also a blind date turned boyfriend whose name was Leslie and his two best friends were Shay and Blair. In my head, I was thinking he might know how to treat a woman since he and all his friends had women's names. Not so much. However, he did know how to treat a beer and a plate of Mexican food. He was a pathological liar and went back to his ex-girlfriend after dating me for almost a year. At this very dark season in my life, I found myself back in the presence of Mr. Sleepy Handsy Pants until I found out he was sleeping with his hands in the pants of a 19 year-old who lived up the street from my parents. So I rebounded like the Knick's starting center right back to Liar Leslie. He was still Liar Leslie except for a few extra pounds and an alcohol problem and was, of course, secretly still dating the ex. This time, I left many of his valuable things on his front porch when I left. During a thunderstorm. While he was at work.
If high school was a paper cut and college was a kitchen accident, then post college was like a bloody triage center somewhere near the Texas chainsaw massacre. I dated one 30 year-old guy when I was 24 who once brought me back a gift from a 2 week long trip to Colorado because he thought it was funny: a beef stick the size of a Vienna sausage in a package that labeled it "The Little Chub." That, my friend, is what we call a bright red beaming little flag. It was for the best anyway. I didn't like how his earlobes attached to his neck. That and he was sleeping with his ex-girlfriend. Did I mention I'm not an ex-girlfriend fan? Another boyfriend had a guy pass out on his couch who promptly peed on the couch. He took it outside, febreezed it off, sun dried it and put it back in house. Hygiene issues just can't be tolerated. That and his ex-girlfriend tried to beat me up at the bowling alley. Criers are abhorrent. I had one cry because I had a bad day at work. I'm not into other women so I got creeped out and left him like a bad habit. Being that these lovelies were such prizes, I tried dating someone who was heavily involved in the church. I instantly knew he was definitely not "the one" when he told me that he doesn't sin- except for pre-marital sex- and that a deal breaker for him was that his future wife must have fake boobs. He stood me up on Valentines Day so I cyberstalked him on MySpace just to find out he too was dating a 19 year-old. Then came the last in a long line of esteem deprication. Where to begin? This gem was hung up on what? His ex-girlfriend. He had pre-emergent man boobs and sported a pair of Crocs on a daily basis. He loved the Oakridge Boys and 1986 porn videos that I unexpectedly and horrifically extracted one day from his VCR while attempting to watch Three Amigos. My mom told me I was interested in him just because he wore a suit. I hate it when moms are right.
Now to be fair, all of these guys turned into very decent, respecatble men, most of whom have found very beautiful and wonderful women who are great for them in every way. I tip my hat to all of them for the help with personal growth. With that said, along the way, I have figured out the cause of the disaster: Hurricane Me. As Dr. Phil says, "What's the common denominator here?" I put up with so much crap while obviously and literally scraping the bottom of the barrel, desperately looking for validation from someone who could never give it to me anyway. Turns out, God blessed me with this abundance of graceless indignity for one reason: to show me that only His opinion of me mattered. He wholloped me in the dollop so that I could be a person of significance to myself. He is my Redeemer and makes me worth it. And bonus- he's into hygiene.
So what do I need in a man? One who sees what He does and treasures it. One who is ok with the fact that I am ok with myself with or without him. One who is ok with him not being responsible for my happiness. That, ladies, is the prefect man. Hello, Ryan.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
10 Reasons I Would Not Want To Be Famous
10. Chances are I got there by notoriety.
9. I would not like having 2,976,487 followers on Twitter. That's just too many.
8. Some picture of me would surface from college by someone wanting 10K and I would have to do some explaining to my mom.
7. I'd have to meet Cojo on the red carpet and his teeth scare me. They are like tombstones.
6. Kanye would interrupt me during my spot on Dave Letterman and say that I did a good job, but my former self was much better.
5. People would expect me to buy a big house and I really don't want to have to keep all that crap clean.
4. Instead of cameramen trying to photograph me without makeup, I'd be the one they would try to catch with it on.
3. Kim Kardashian would hate me and try to get me kicked out of night clubs for having rival sized butt cheeks.
2. My agent would want me to get caught with no underwear on or to be drunk in an airport slapping old women with with my iPod so I can make sure and at least still have bad press after my debut turns out to be my only but. I'm just not sure I'm into that.
1. I'd have to chip in for Obama's health care plan. But I guess if I'm a celebrity, then I can really go to the airport and slap an old lady and throw a fit and no one could do anything about it. Except Dr. Phil.
9. I would not like having 2,976,487 followers on Twitter. That's just too many.
8. Some picture of me would surface from college by someone wanting 10K and I would have to do some explaining to my mom.
7. I'd have to meet Cojo on the red carpet and his teeth scare me. They are like tombstones.
6. Kanye would interrupt me during my spot on Dave Letterman and say that I did a good job, but my former self was much better.
5. People would expect me to buy a big house and I really don't want to have to keep all that crap clean.
4. Instead of cameramen trying to photograph me without makeup, I'd be the one they would try to catch with it on.
3. Kim Kardashian would hate me and try to get me kicked out of night clubs for having rival sized butt cheeks.
2. My agent would want me to get caught with no underwear on or to be drunk in an airport slapping old women with with my iPod so I can make sure and at least still have bad press after my debut turns out to be my only but. I'm just not sure I'm into that.
1. I'd have to chip in for Obama's health care plan. But I guess if I'm a celebrity, then I can really go to the airport and slap an old lady and throw a fit and no one could do anything about it. Except Dr. Phil.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Man, I Feel Like a Woman
So in my Lifegroup, we were discussing why it is so hard being a woman while breaking open the word of Esther. Back up, let me explain what a Lifegroup is because to an outsider, it kinda sounds like group therapy at a halfway house. I go to Lifechurch.tv. We don't have Sunday school; we have Lifegroups. These are people we do life with and explore who we are in God and what we can do to be more like Christ to ourselves and the world. I am very different spiritually than most people, including those in my group. But that's a whole 'nother loaf of bread.
SO... why its hard to be a woman. I feel like guys need the full on interpretation. No holds bar. Why do they need an interpretation? Because I need an interpretation. That's part of why its so hard to be a woman.
So where to begin, because its a never ending cycle. Hmmmm...... Guess I'll go with what I know. I am crazy when I ovulate (my boyfriend hates that word just like you're hating it right now). When
I say crazy, I'm talking I need the halfway house. The problem with ALL of the things Mutha Nature gives us to deal with is this- there are two people in one body. I'm not joking. Call in Billy Graham because I could use an exorcism. Whether you're ovulating or PMS-ing, there are two people shoved in here (can I get an Amen?). The normal, nice, sane, bubbly you is in there smushed somewhere deep down beneath the crack of the psycho sumo wrestler that has taken over. It literally feels like a sumo wrestler because you feel heavy and thick, she doesn't fit in here, and she just feels sick nasty. You may have on your favorite shirt, make-up, hair did, but you feel like a slippery dirty pig shoved in a pair of Express trousers. And that's just the physical part. Inside, you know you're being somewhat nuts, but psycho Sake sumo wrestler (who I like to call Sake because she seems to embody the personality of a someone who has had FAR too much to sake to drink and we all know sake makes people crazy.) keeps stomping around like godzilla and you don't know quite how to reign her in. While she's eating her fifth maple glazed krispy kreme, you're in there wondering just what the crap is going on and why can't you get back to the real world. Sake Sumo also controls part of your brain as well. She takes in plain, basic information, then spits out vile, putrid irrational responses as if the world is caving in. The drama even wears us out. You're sitting and watching a Vagisil commercial and next thing you know you're crying your eyes out because you your mom wouldn't buy you some Gitano jeans once the fourth grade and she OBVIOUSLY doesn't love you.
Trust me, we honestly don't love it anymore than you do. The second that Sake is gone, we have to be on clean-up duty. We are basically put on probation by all those we encountered during her hostile take-over as to whether or not they still even want to know us and you have to put together the pieces as to what really happened and what was just made up in her/your mind. It sucks.
So anyway...When we're going through this crap, hormones escalate and drop like they are on the Superman at Six Flags. Right now, I'm riding the estrogen fighter plane and someone else is piloting. And playing Viva Las Vegas really loudly. It just keeps climbing higher and spinning and I'm in the cockpit feeling nauseated and confused and very out of control. Seriously. It's miserable.
So. That's one very good reason why its hard to be a woman. It's not an excuse, just an explanation. Tip of the day: Gentlemen, don't ask her "What's wrong?" and don't dare say "
Are you PMS-ing?" because she doesn't even know for sure herself and its kinda like waking up a sleep walker. So if she's acting like something out of Stephen King flick, fight for her. She's smothered under the big flabby butt cheeks of someone who is not welcome and she can't get out. Here's how: give her a really big hug, kiss her on the forehead, tell her she looks beautiful that day, and watch her transform before your very eyes. You will instantly become her ninja David Copperfield. It's really like giving Sake Sumo a great big kick in the taco.
SO... why its hard to be a woman. I feel like guys need the full on interpretation. No holds bar. Why do they need an interpretation? Because I need an interpretation. That's part of why its so hard to be a woman.
So where to begin, because its a never ending cycle. Hmmmm...... Guess I'll go with what I know. I am crazy when I ovulate (my boyfriend hates that word just like you're hating it right now). When
I say crazy, I'm talking I need the halfway house. The problem with ALL of the things Mutha Nature gives us to deal with is this- there are two people in one body. I'm not joking. Call in Billy Graham because I could use an exorcism. Whether you're ovulating or PMS-ing, there are two people shoved in here (can I get an Amen?). The normal, nice, sane, bubbly you is in there smushed somewhere deep down beneath the crack of the psycho sumo wrestler that has taken over. It literally feels like a sumo wrestler because you feel heavy and thick, she doesn't fit in here, and she just feels sick nasty. You may have on your favorite shirt, make-up, hair did, but you feel like a slippery dirty pig shoved in a pair of Express trousers. And that's just the physical part. Inside, you know you're being somewhat nuts, but psycho Sake sumo wrestler (who I like to call Sake because she seems to embody the personality of a someone who has had FAR too much to sake to drink and we all know sake makes people crazy.) keeps stomping around like godzilla and you don't know quite how to reign her in. While she's eating her fifth maple glazed krispy kreme, you're in there wondering just what the crap is going on and why can't you get back to the real world. Sake Sumo also controls part of your brain as well. She takes in plain, basic information, then spits out vile, putrid irrational responses as if the world is caving in. The drama even wears us out. You're sitting and watching a Vagisil commercial and next thing you know you're crying your eyes out because you your mom wouldn't buy you some Gitano jeans once the fourth grade and she OBVIOUSLY doesn't love you.Trust me, we honestly don't love it anymore than you do. The second that Sake is gone, we have to be on clean-up duty. We are basically put on probation by all those we encountered during her hostile take-over as to whether or not they still even want to know us and you have to put together the pieces as to what really happened and what was just made up in her/your mind. It sucks.
So anyway...When we're going through this crap, hormones escalate and drop like they are on the Superman at Six Flags. Right now, I'm riding the estrogen fighter plane and someone else is piloting. And playing Viva Las Vegas really loudly. It just keeps climbing higher and spinning and I'm in the cockpit feeling nauseated and confused and very out of control. Seriously. It's miserable.
So. That's one very good reason why its hard to be a woman. It's not an excuse, just an explanation. Tip of the day: Gentlemen, don't ask her "What's wrong?" and don't dare say "
Are you PMS-ing?" because she doesn't even know for sure herself and its kinda like waking up a sleep walker. So if she's acting like something out of Stephen King flick, fight for her. She's smothered under the big flabby butt cheeks of someone who is not welcome and she can't get out. Here's how: give her a really big hug, kiss her on the forehead, tell her she looks beautiful that day, and watch her transform before your very eyes. You will instantly become her ninja David Copperfield. It's really like giving Sake Sumo a great big kick in the taco.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Beautiful Bosoms
I love my boobs.
They may make it tough to play golf or take the stairs at a quick pace. Bras can really suck too, especially in the summer. But life just wouldn't be the same without them staring at everyone at a cold football game. I love my girls. They really just make a girl feel pretty sometimes all sittin there in my little black dress adorned with some pearls. It's part of what makes me feminine and curvy, maybe not by much in my case, but it works for me and I'm ok with it. I can't blame guys for loving boobs. Deep down, ladies, we all have to admit we like them too. Sometimes I forget that some women in this world wish they could have my little booby problems.
I hate cancer. I've stated this a few times I think. But just in case you missed it, here it is again.
I hate cancer.
If there is one thing we can all be united about, it's about ending it. The mistakes of our mortality- our DNA gone wrong. I can think of better ways to die.
So I love boobs and hate cancer. I am trying really damn hard to get people involved for the Race for the Cure this year. There's nothing like looking into the face of a young mother wiping the mouth of her two year old and serving those around her with her bald head and rigid chest. Stripped of her femininity, her beauty blazes forth in her fight and smile. Then there is the 86 year old decked out in pink from head to toe. On her survivors hat, she's got 39 ribbons indicating her years of health and a swollen left arm as her battle scar. But she's there encouraging the young mother to stay strong like her. She encourages those around her to keep pushing and keep trying. There is just a buzz of hope and life in the aura around her aging body. Because she knows that cancer doesn't just go for the body. It can take the soul too. Her aura is contagious.
These women have done drugs Keith Richards hasn't even heard of.
Which leads to the story of my friend Carol. She's done some of those drugs. Fifteen years ago, Carol found a lump in her breast. She heard that horrible phrase from her doctor, "It doesn't look good." Instantly she was thrown into the triage of intense radiation, chemo treatments and of course, a mastectomy. Back then, they removed the entire breast, some of the surrounding muscle tissue and all the lymph nodes in the armpit associated with that breast. After these surgeries, women can't raise their arms due to the muscle loss but can't put them down due to incisions. It's agonizing. As she healed, she found she had lymphodema. Since all her lymph nodes were gone in her arm pit, the fluid that internally cleans our bodies doesn't drain from her left arm. Depending on how bad it is from day to day determines whether or not she can use it. Some days, it just won't function. But Carol is a trooper and never lets it dampen her or her infamous wit and sarcasm that I love her for.
Fast forward 11 years. Reaching for the tv remote with her good arm, Carol notices a weird sensation in her remaining breast. Reaching up, she felt an all-to-familiar and unwelcomed house guest. It had returned to strike again. She's was already missing a breast and realized she could be losing the other AND the only functional arm she had but she faced it with the all the wrath of God and her handful of scarves. She began her barrage of testing and treatment and went in for her final mastectomy. When she woke up, she discovered her arm to be fully functional and movable. Because of the research done by countless scientists and the money raised by her friends and neighbors, they only had to remove 4 lymph glands and far less muscle tissue. Scientists figured out a pattern to breast cancer's infection of these vital tissues thus sparing the victims the anguish of lymphodema and tissue loss. Carol was facing disability her whole life not to mention disfigurement. Now she's got her life back. All because you and I got up one morning, once a year, and took a walk.
Take that breast cancer.
So September 19th, come take a walk with me. All it takes is the $25 you were gonna blow on booze or a movie that night; $25 that now allows a woman to move. Come see for yourself the aura of the old lady, the life in the young mother or the determination of a woman "running" the race in her wheel chair. It'll put life into perspective and genuine hope in your heart that, as I grow older, seems to be harder and harder to find sometimes.
So come take a walk with me. Come realize why breasts represent life. You'll be home by noon and can crawl back in bed and dream about wonderful, beautiful boobs.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
A fledgling writer
As a young woman on the threshold of turning dirty thirty, you would think I am starting to have some direction in my life, some sense of well-being, stability. Well I don't. Or at least I don't feel like it. And honestly, I'm ok with that. Really, lately I feel more like a carcass or flesh bag being drug by the neck over damp, musty ground, all moist and covered in grit, leaving threadlike trails of muddy water behind me. But we'll get to that some other time.
First off, I really dislike the word moist. And the word blog. Let's change it to something different, shall we? Let's go with talk instead. Come visit my talk. No- that doesn't sound right. Or maybe spot. Nope. Sounds like biopsy. Bitching spot perhaps. No, that's not ladylike. And I couldn't send it to my mother or pastor. Jesus sure wouldn't like it and it makes me sound disgruntled. How about locale? I like it. Come visit my locale. I like that. I love my thesaurus.
At my locale I jot down my thoughts. Or I guess I will jot down my thoughts at some point. Anyway, thanks for showing up to my locale. I hope you come back sometime.
Props to Lisa for getting me started on this. I like it already.
First off, I really dislike the word moist. And the word blog. Let's change it to something different, shall we? Let's go with talk instead. Come visit my talk. No- that doesn't sound right. Or maybe spot. Nope. Sounds like biopsy. Bitching spot perhaps. No, that's not ladylike. And I couldn't send it to my mother or pastor. Jesus sure wouldn't like it and it makes me sound disgruntled. How about locale? I like it. Come visit my locale. I like that. I love my thesaurus.
At my locale I jot down my thoughts. Or I guess I will jot down my thoughts at some point. Anyway, thanks for showing up to my locale. I hope you come back sometime.
Props to Lisa for getting me started on this. I like it already.
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