I attend church with a fabulously dynamic pastor. One thing that I really like about his teaching style is that it is very direct. None of the hellfire and brimstone of days past. And, the best part? He is able to breakdown concepts into bite-sized tiny morsels. One such morsel is the joy of haters and hater nation.
Let's start with a definition, shall we? A hater is one who hates. Specifically, it's someone who spends a lot of energy concerned about what you have, whether you deserve it, and how you got it. Basically, someone who is all up in your business your bid-nass. Hater nation is the collection of haters that are following you at any given moment.
Pastor Hannah has spent several Sundays pointing out that with favor comes haters. It's a concept that is common throughout the Bible. (Remember Joseph's coat? And what his brothers did to it --and him, for that matter?). There are many-a scriptures to remind you that favor is what God gives to his children...and that he also gives you the tools to deal with haters. But you should never, NEVER refuse your blessing to appease haters...they'll never be satisfied, so why would you hold up your blessing?
The best thing about church is when you are able to apply or relive the lessons from service to real life. My friend the Designer* quoted Katt Williams the other day. I might not get it right, but basically, he said if you have 5 haters on Wednesday, you better have 12 by Friday. Hilariously, the Titan's father used to tell him the same thing...if you have 7 haters on Monday, you better have 20 haters by Saturday. The days might change, but the concept is the same. If you have haters, you're doin' something right. The more I see haters, the better I feel. I'm so tough that the more haters I get, the cockier I get. I've been singing Jill Scott's "Hate on Me" for months now.
What are you doing about the haters in your life? Are you sittin' at home, feeling all sorry for yourself? Are you avoiding your blessings and your favor because you're afraid somebody's gonna talk about you? Well, my dear, keep away from me...because if that attitude is contagious, I don't want to catch it. Because I? I am ALL about getting everything the Lord has planned for me. I want to reap the benefits of ALL my hard work. Ok? Ok then.
Oh, and to all you haters out there? Bring a couple of your friends by...because eyes haven't seen and ears haven't heard what I have comin'. Body, mind, pocketbook; all of mine is going to be tight. I? Am incredible. Sharpen your tongue baby, cuz you're gonna have a lot to talk about. Hater. :)
*officially her new handle until I can come up with a better one.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Learning about design
One of the most awesome things about owning my own place is the ability to put my own mark on the furniture and walls. There are those who rent who are willing to attack the walls with paint rollers, nail guns, and drills, but then they run the risk of getting dinged on their security deposit OR having to undo whatever it is they did. I've never been one to get into that. When I was renting, I just lived with my white or ecru walls, knowing that someday I'd have my own place and I'd be able to do whatever I wanted to it.
Now that I'm a big girl, I've been having a blast doing just that. I decided to go room by room, as I'm not actually independently wealthy. I've turned the previously cream walls into all manners of shades of turquoise, aqua, and brown. I've made plans to stick some tile to the wall (aka a backsplash), change the light fixture, and drill some serious holes in the wall for wall hangings. And, of course, I also made some room for rather awesome electronics (note the grown-ass man tv that's been mounted on a full-range of motion wall mount. Eat your heart out, boys). Throughout this process, I've absolutely used the advice of experts. Designers, tech-heads, and painters have all been tapped for their knowledge. You know what I've learned? Designing takes for freaking ever.
First, there's the process of choosing what you want. With such a big decision, I can't take it too lightly. Changing my mind is far too costly. So, it takes time to decide what you want, and what my muse or inspiration is going to be. (In my living room, I went with peacocks). And then, there's getting that inspiration translated into something that DOESN'T end up on the home equivalent of "What Not to Wear." (This is where having a friend who is a fabulous professional designer comes in!!). And then, there's scheduling the install of these things. (When it comes to this piece, it is SUPER hard not to do what my clients do to me -- failing to realize that you're NOT the only client.) Finally, there's realizing that having champagne will ultimately require waiting a lot longer to gather the money to bring your (designer's) vision to life. It's a work in progress, but when it's all done, it will TOTALLY be worth it.
Who knew redecorating a home would turn into a life lesson? What we've learned in the last year is patience. It may not get done right away, but eventually I'll be done. And really -- what's 18 months among friends? (Although, let's be real. If it takes 18 months to finish this, I may not make it to the end...patience is a virtue, and I? I'm not a virtuous woman.)
Now that I'm a big girl, I've been having a blast doing just that. I decided to go room by room, as I'm not actually independently wealthy. I've turned the previously cream walls into all manners of shades of turquoise, aqua, and brown. I've made plans to stick some tile to the wall (aka a backsplash), change the light fixture, and drill some serious holes in the wall for wall hangings. And, of course, I also made some room for rather awesome electronics (note the grown-ass man tv that's been mounted on a full-range of motion wall mount. Eat your heart out, boys). Throughout this process, I've absolutely used the advice of experts. Designers, tech-heads, and painters have all been tapped for their knowledge. You know what I've learned? Designing takes for freaking ever.
First, there's the process of choosing what you want. With such a big decision, I can't take it too lightly. Changing my mind is far too costly. So, it takes time to decide what you want, and what my muse or inspiration is going to be. (In my living room, I went with peacocks). And then, there's getting that inspiration translated into something that DOESN'T end up on the home equivalent of "What Not to Wear." (This is where having a friend who is a fabulous professional designer comes in!!). And then, there's scheduling the install of these things. (When it comes to this piece, it is SUPER hard not to do what my clients do to me -- failing to realize that you're NOT the only client.) Finally, there's realizing that having champagne will ultimately require waiting a lot longer to gather the money to bring your (designer's) vision to life. It's a work in progress, but when it's all done, it will TOTALLY be worth it.
Who knew redecorating a home would turn into a life lesson? What we've learned in the last year is patience. It may not get done right away, but eventually I'll be done. And really -- what's 18 months among friends? (Although, let's be real. If it takes 18 months to finish this, I may not make it to the end...patience is a virtue, and I? I'm not a virtuous woman.)
Thursday, July 28, 2011
All hail the V
Have you seen those new commercials for Summer's Eve: "All Hail the V!!!"? The whole premise of the commercial is showing men doing great feats for the affections of women. First, I'd like to commend Summer's Eve for using several different multicultural references and using men and women of all ethnicities. Second, I'd like to say the following: *clears throat* PAH HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Ok, part of the reason I like this commercial so much is because it's hilarious. (See video below.)* The other reason is that I find it thought provoking. Not deep philosophical thought provoking. But shallow, interesting provoking. Things that make you go hmmm, if you will. Here's what I'm wondering. This commercial implies that men are ready to do all sorts of things: go into battle, by land or sea; joust to the death, sword fight, you name it a man will do it, all for the affections of a woman. While I don't doubt that women are beautiful enough, and the "V" sweet enough to make these things happen -- what I wonder is, who the eff are the men that are doing these things?!! The modern man is hardly willing to open doors, pull out chairs, and buy a cocktail for women (they don't know). Where, exactly, are they challenging the local douchebag (pun intended) to a duel?
Ok, obviously, the modern day equivalent to these things are other perks that women get. For example, getting into clubs for free, never paying for dinner, talking their way out of tickets, the list goes on and on. Many of the women I know have rarely, if ever, experienced these things (particularly if we're talking about on any sort of regular basis). Is it that only the extraordinarily beautiful women are getting these perks? And, by the way, what women qualify as extraordinarily beautiful? As we've previously discussed, it's not the uber-skinny. So who is it? I think we can all agree that there's just a certain "something" that the women have. My 2 cents? It's having the confidence -- and the audacity -- to ask for it. Sometimes, it's just about going for it. So, from now on, let's just go for it!
P.S. I'm totally convinced that this works for the extraordinary male, too. Think about it. You definitely know a guy who has women falling over themselves to do things for him: buy drinks, cook dinner, do laundry, etc. Care to test my theory?
*Yes kae.dae. I'm embedding a video. Again. And you'll like it.
Ok, part of the reason I like this commercial so much is because it's hilarious. (See video below.)* The other reason is that I find it thought provoking. Not deep philosophical thought provoking. But shallow, interesting provoking. Things that make you go hmmm, if you will. Here's what I'm wondering. This commercial implies that men are ready to do all sorts of things: go into battle, by land or sea; joust to the death, sword fight, you name it a man will do it, all for the affections of a woman. While I don't doubt that women are beautiful enough, and the "V" sweet enough to make these things happen -- what I wonder is, who the eff are the men that are doing these things?!! The modern man is hardly willing to open doors, pull out chairs, and buy a cocktail for women (they don't know). Where, exactly, are they challenging the local douchebag (pun intended) to a duel?
Ok, obviously, the modern day equivalent to these things are other perks that women get. For example, getting into clubs for free, never paying for dinner, talking their way out of tickets, the list goes on and on. Many of the women I know have rarely, if ever, experienced these things (particularly if we're talking about on any sort of regular basis). Is it that only the extraordinarily beautiful women are getting these perks? And, by the way, what women qualify as extraordinarily beautiful? As we've previously discussed, it's not the uber-skinny. So who is it? I think we can all agree that there's just a certain "something" that the women have. My 2 cents? It's having the confidence -- and the audacity -- to ask for it. Sometimes, it's just about going for it. So, from now on, let's just go for it!
P.S. I'm totally convinced that this works for the extraordinary male, too. Think about it. You definitely know a guy who has women falling over themselves to do things for him: buy drinks, cook dinner, do laundry, etc. Care to test my theory?
*Yes kae.dae. I'm embedding a video. Again. And you'll like it.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Good Skin
Throughout the Mission, I learned several things. Finances, fitness, skincare, spirituality and attitude were all on my list of topics to address. One of the most surprising things I learned happened just recently. Last month, I learned that depression is bad for the skin.
For reasons I won't get into here, I spent the entire month of June under a dark cloud. Life was terrible, the beginning of the summer was awful, and I was an emotional wreck. To make my already fragile emotional state worse, I started to notice the appearance of smile lines (ironic, isn't it?) and forehead wrinkles. My overall complexion was ashen and the definition of unsexy. I ramped up my skincare efforts -- cleansing, exfoliating, moisturizing -- the whole nine yards. But NOTHING was helping. I resigned myself to leaving the category of those born lucky to look young for their age and into the sad category of looking older than my age.
Even though I didn't think it would happen, the clouds eventually began to lift. (Turns out, life goes on). The more light that came into my life, the better my skin started to look. Awesomely, my smile lines remained hidden if I wasn't smiling -- which was turning to be a lot less often -- that is, I was starting to smile ALL the time! (Again, ironic.) The forehead wrinkles were mostly nonexistent; and my skin was glowing and dewy. I didn't look a day over 25 (If I do say so myself).*
So, what we've learned is, a sunny disposition is not only good for the soul, but also good for your skin. Who knew?!
Oh, P.S.? I will take a moment to wax poetic about my favorite skincare product. philosphy's Oxygen Peel is worth every penny. It's an exfoliator that leads to smooth skin. I'm still looking for a magic potion that closes pores. Suggestions welcome.
*which really isn't necessary. John and Jane Q Public have confirmed this fact many-a time.
For reasons I won't get into here, I spent the entire month of June under a dark cloud. Life was terrible, the beginning of the summer was awful, and I was an emotional wreck. To make my already fragile emotional state worse, I started to notice the appearance of smile lines (ironic, isn't it?) and forehead wrinkles. My overall complexion was ashen and the definition of unsexy. I ramped up my skincare efforts -- cleansing, exfoliating, moisturizing -- the whole nine yards. But NOTHING was helping. I resigned myself to leaving the category of those born lucky to look young for their age and into the sad category of looking older than my age.
Even though I didn't think it would happen, the clouds eventually began to lift. (Turns out, life goes on). The more light that came into my life, the better my skin started to look. Awesomely, my smile lines remained hidden if I wasn't smiling -- which was turning to be a lot less often -- that is, I was starting to smile ALL the time! (Again, ironic.) The forehead wrinkles were mostly nonexistent; and my skin was glowing and dewy. I didn't look a day over 25 (If I do say so myself).*
So, what we've learned is, a sunny disposition is not only good for the soul, but also good for your skin. Who knew?!
Oh, P.S.? I will take a moment to wax poetic about my favorite skincare product. philosphy's Oxygen Peel is worth every penny. It's an exfoliator that leads to smooth skin. I'm still looking for a magic potion that closes pores. Suggestions welcome.
*which really isn't necessary. John and Jane Q Public have confirmed this fact many-a time.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Think I'm Cute
Yesterday I was having lunch with a great friend of mine, and I was telling him about a couple girls with whom I generally don’t kick it anymore. His first response? “What is with you and girls not liking you?!!?!” Seriously! That’s a direct quote! Mind you, I hadn’t actually given him the full background or story on why I’m not seeing these chicks anymore, and I certainly didn’t say that it had anything to do with something I did. But, given his reaction, I never did get to complete the story…I needed to know who else doesn’t like me.
I love hearing gossip about myself. Usually, I find it hilarious. I love the inaccuracies, the half-truths, and the (mis)perceptions. Sometimes, it’s a learning moment, because I find out that I’m unintentionally giving off a certain vibe. And hearing about it helps me to correct it. (For instance, did you know I was stuck up in law school? Me neither!!). I’m quite certain that part of the reason my feelings aren’t hurt by the gossip and backbiting is because it hasn’t been particularly salacious gossip, nor has my reputation really been marred by the talking and sniping. My heart goes out to people who have had that problem.
My favorite type of comment -- and here’s where I circle back to my friend’s comment -- is that I “think I’m cute.” Apparently, there’s a group of women with whom I spend nanoseconds of time throughout the year, who are convinced that I “think I’m cute.” Here’s my question: why is this an insult? I mean, call me crazy, but aren’t the people who don’t think they’re cute far more annoying? Nothing will ruin a night quicker than being out with your girl, and having to constantly reassure her that the outfit she picked is cute and she looks great, and blah blah blah. Or, the people that constantly fish for compliments? How exhausting is that?!? And yet, these chicks are adamantly opposed to the fact that I don’t do any of these things. And the real kicker? They’re offended because I wear heels. OMG! A short girl who wears heels on a near constant basis! How dare I?!?!
As a really good girlfriend of mine (the designer) says, “of course I think I’m cute. What else would I think? That I’m hideous? Of course not. That would be ridiculous.” And, I’m going to add to that…because I think I’m cute, I’m going to dress myself accordingly. And since I watch What Not to Wear religiously, and pay attention when Clinton & Stacy are talking, I’m also going to know exactly which outfits to choose, to optimize my cuteness. And finally, to raise the level of fabulosity, I’m going to work on the areas I don’t like. Maybe instead of being all offended by how cute I think I am, why don’t you try looking at yourself in the mirror, and calling yourself the fairest of them all? Honestly? Maybe if you didn’t have your face all screwed up in that sourpuss expression, you’d think you were cute too. Just sayin’.
Turns out I have a lot of friends with thoughts on this subject matter. The Sailor/Officer says that people who are insecure are offended by other’s confidence. (Too bad for them.) My Ex used to say “I’m not conceited, I’m convinced.” Pastor Hannah says “with favor come haters.” To all of them I say, rock on. I am loving that I surround myself by an entire group of people who think they’re cute. If you don’t fall into that category, what on earth are you doing in this circle? Get on our level, mkay? Kthxbye.
Think I’m cute indeed. Funny – it probably wouldn’t bother girls nearly as much if their men didn’t agree. (Ok, that was catty. But it made me smile…)
I love hearing gossip about myself. Usually, I find it hilarious. I love the inaccuracies, the half-truths, and the (mis)perceptions. Sometimes, it’s a learning moment, because I find out that I’m unintentionally giving off a certain vibe. And hearing about it helps me to correct it. (For instance, did you know I was stuck up in law school? Me neither!!). I’m quite certain that part of the reason my feelings aren’t hurt by the gossip and backbiting is because it hasn’t been particularly salacious gossip, nor has my reputation really been marred by the talking and sniping. My heart goes out to people who have had that problem.
My favorite type of comment -- and here’s where I circle back to my friend’s comment -- is that I “think I’m cute.” Apparently, there’s a group of women with whom I spend nanoseconds of time throughout the year, who are convinced that I “think I’m cute.” Here’s my question: why is this an insult? I mean, call me crazy, but aren’t the people who don’t think they’re cute far more annoying? Nothing will ruin a night quicker than being out with your girl, and having to constantly reassure her that the outfit she picked is cute and she looks great, and blah blah blah. Or, the people that constantly fish for compliments? How exhausting is that?!? And yet, these chicks are adamantly opposed to the fact that I don’t do any of these things. And the real kicker? They’re offended because I wear heels.
As a really good girlfriend of mine (the designer) says, “of course I think I’m cute. What else would I think? That I’m hideous? Of course not. That would be ridiculous.” And, I’m going to add to that…because I think I’m cute, I’m going to dress myself accordingly. And since I watch What Not to Wear religiously, and pay attention when Clinton & Stacy are talking, I’m also going to know exactly which outfits to choose, to optimize my cuteness. And finally, to raise the level of fabulosity, I’m going to work on the areas I don’t like. Maybe instead of being all offended by how cute I think I am, why don’t you try looking at yourself in the mirror, and calling yourself the fairest of them all? Honestly? Maybe if you didn’t have your face all screwed up in that sourpuss expression, you’d think you were cute too. Just sayin’.
Turns out I have a lot of friends with thoughts on this subject matter. The Sailor/Officer says that people who are insecure are offended by other’s confidence. (Too bad for them.) My Ex used to say “I’m not conceited, I’m convinced.” Pastor Hannah says “with favor come haters.” To all of them I say, rock on. I am loving that I surround myself by an entire group of people who think they’re cute. If you don’t fall into that category, what on earth are you doing in this circle? Get on our level, mkay? Kthxbye.
Think I’m cute indeed. Funny – it probably wouldn’t bother girls nearly as much if their men didn’t agree. (Ok, that was catty. But it made me smile…)
Monday, July 25, 2011
Miss Independent
My Ma raised me to be an independent woman. Despite being married, my mother was a firm believer in having her own house, her own car, two jobs, work hard she a bad broad*, and her own overall independence. It wasn't really a big issue, it's just how it was. Ma was always confused by the women who didn't operate that way. The ladies who always needed a man around; or (my favorite example) who would hide their shopping triumphs from their husband -- "because he'd be upset about how much I spent." Ma's reaction? "Say what? Don't you punch the clock everyday too?"
As a result, she raised a rather fiestily independent daughter. Each decision I've made regarding my future has been, well, about what's best for me. I chose my apartment -- and later my condo; my car; and credit card debt, based on how much I could afford to pay on my own. I decide what my future looks like based on what's best for me. There really isn't much flexibility, because there really isn't a need -- I mean, if I change my mind, who's around to whine about it? Frankly, no one else gets a vote. This is an island of one with a benevolent dictator -- visitor passes are generally given, but never has there been consideration for permanent residents.
Lately, I was confronted by my independent stance. Not that it was a bad thing, but that it was so "rigid" (I'd like to point out that it isn't rigid if you only have to consider one person's desires. If I change my mind, I don't need to be flexible -- I just change it). This got me to thinking. I wonder if by virtue of my focus on my ability to do it alone, I will ultimately end up testing my ability to do it alone. You know how they say you should operate as though you've got the job you want, or behave like your blessing has already arrived, etc? I wonder if the reverse works? If you plan your life around being able to do it on your own, will end up doing it alone?
The problem with this theory is that even if it's right, what on earth can be done about it? I truly believe that a woman (or man too, really), needs to be able to support his or herself. A relationship needs a bit of independence to keep either party from feeling stifled. What is the trick for balancing this independence, with sharing?
An interesting question, but not one I actually need to answer today. At the moment, no one's making an application to be a permanent resident on my island...and everyone else is kickin' it on the beach. Enjoy the sun, tourists!!
*If this invoked the hook of a particular song, then you seriously need to get out of my head. If it didn't, then I'll help you out: http://youtu.be/jCUiGArhW2M
As a result, she raised a rather fiestily independent daughter. Each decision I've made regarding my future has been, well, about what's best for me. I chose my apartment -- and later my condo; my car; and credit card debt, based on how much I could afford to pay on my own. I decide what my future looks like based on what's best for me. There really isn't much flexibility, because there really isn't a need -- I mean, if I change my mind, who's around to whine about it? Frankly, no one else gets a vote. This is an island of one with a benevolent dictator -- visitor passes are generally given, but never has there been consideration for permanent residents.
Lately, I was confronted by my independent stance. Not that it was a bad thing, but that it was so "rigid" (I'd like to point out that it isn't rigid if you only have to consider one person's desires. If I change my mind, I don't need to be flexible -- I just change it). This got me to thinking. I wonder if by virtue of my focus on my ability to do it alone, I will ultimately end up testing my ability to do it alone. You know how they say you should operate as though you've got the job you want, or behave like your blessing has already arrived, etc? I wonder if the reverse works? If you plan your life around being able to do it on your own, will end up doing it alone?
The problem with this theory is that even if it's right, what on earth can be done about it? I truly believe that a woman (or man too, really), needs to be able to support his or herself. A relationship needs a bit of independence to keep either party from feeling stifled. What is the trick for balancing this independence, with sharing?
An interesting question, but not one I actually need to answer today. At the moment, no one's making an application to be a permanent resident on my island...and everyone else is kickin' it on the beach. Enjoy the sun, tourists!!
*If this invoked the hook of a particular song, then you seriously need to get out of my head. If it didn't, then I'll help you out: http://youtu.be/jCUiGArhW2M
Sunday, July 24, 2011
With Benefits
There comes a time in every gal's life when some guy asks her if he can get the benefit of the cookie* without all of the strings of a relationship attached. The circumstances of the question can range from a recent break-up; or he really likes her but doesn't want to ruin the friendship; or he's in town for a short period, but doesn't live wherever the gal is. Whatever the reason, the basic parameters are the same. This is a situation which has been mocked in television and movies ad nauseum. Usually, chick flicks result in the couple getting together. Whatever.
My question is about real life. I wonder if these arrangements ever really work out. I have female friends who claim that they can totally get down with the get down without emotional attachment. Other women say that there is no cookie without emotional connections.
More than one person has claimed that the cookie is always better when baked with love. Which leads to the question -- given that a woman's enjoyment of the cookie is generally less likely, and it's always better with love, why on earth would any woman agree to the friends with benefits arrangement? It is my contention that it is never hard for a woman to find a partner. (Seriously ladies. Go outside. Throw a rock. Ask that dude you hit if he wants to get it on. The end). So it can't be that the woman is hard-up for cookies. Assuming that it isn't a man that she's baked** with before, then it's unchartered territory, and no guarantee that it'll be delicious. (And, is there anything more delicious than really good cookies?)
Given all of those factors, maybe it is true that women can disconnect. Because otherwise, what's in it for her? I'd like to believe that it is the minority of women who believe that they can turn this friends with benefits arrangement into a real relationship. Just for those ladies, allow me to give you this tidbit from the Engineer (a former friend of mine): you can't turn a burger dinner into a filet mignon. Once you've set the tone, it is what it is. Ok? Kthxbye.
*For definition of the cookie, see Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man by Steve Harvey.
**Now I'm just amused by the several code words I'm using
My question is about real life. I wonder if these arrangements ever really work out. I have female friends who claim that they can totally get down with the get down without emotional attachment. Other women say that there is no cookie without emotional connections.
More than one person has claimed that the cookie is always better when baked with love. Which leads to the question -- given that a woman's enjoyment of the cookie is generally less likely, and it's always better with love, why on earth would any woman agree to the friends with benefits arrangement? It is my contention that it is never hard for a woman to find a partner. (Seriously ladies. Go outside. Throw a rock. Ask that dude you hit if he wants to get it on. The end). So it can't be that the woman is hard-up for cookies. Assuming that it isn't a man that she's baked** with before, then it's unchartered territory, and no guarantee that it'll be delicious. (And, is there anything more delicious than really good cookies?)
Given all of those factors, maybe it is true that women can disconnect. Because otherwise, what's in it for her? I'd like to believe that it is the minority of women who believe that they can turn this friends with benefits arrangement into a real relationship. Just for those ladies, allow me to give you this tidbit from the Engineer (a former friend of mine): you can't turn a burger dinner into a filet mignon. Once you've set the tone, it is what it is. Ok? Kthxbye.
*For definition of the cookie, see Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man by Steve Harvey.
**Now I'm just amused by the several code words I'm using
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Gym Etiquette or, That's Freakin' Disgusting
As you know, I spend much of my free time at the gym. Mostly because I don't have a life outside of work and the gym. *shrug*. D'ah well. Over the past few days, I have been so offended by the goings ons at my particular workout facility. As a result, I thought it might be time for a lesson in gym etiquette.
First of all, if you are taking a class, don't steal other people's equipment. This morning I went to Muscle Max. (A class, incidentally, which was designed to workout every muscle group you may or may not have known existed. Oww.) Anyway, this class requires a lot of equipment: Stairstepper steps, risers, dumbbells, a mat, barbell and weight plates. In order to be ready for start time, you really need to get there 15 minutes early. Which is what I did this morning. For once, I was actually on time to something! I got my 7.5s, 10s, and 12.5s, a mat, a step and 2 risers, barbell, and 4 weight plates. Unfortunately, not everyone made that decision. A chick, with bottle blonde hair, hunched shoulders, and a sour disposition showed up about 5 minutes before class started. Undoubtedly bitter because she (wrongly) believes I'm dipping in her middle-aged dating pool, she totally bogarted the empty space just behind my general area. For the record, at the time she did it, the class wasn't yet filled. Prior to class starting, I propped my mat up against the nearest wall. Well, when it came time to start using the mats for push-ups, I didn't need one. (Still got tennis elbow). But, I noticed after the push-up sets that my mat was moving. Guess who was moving it? Ms. Housewife, of course. Well, as revenge, I went and got my mat when it was time for whatever the next floor exercise was. First rule of thumb, don't take someone's hard-earned mat just because you were late to class. Clearly you didn't prop it against the wall, so go get your own. Darn Housewife.
The next item up? What goes in the cupholder on the treadmill. Turns out that little plastic well is for water bottles and books (or e-readers, as the case may be). So, yesterday, I jumped on the treadmill, in my unending quest for awesome, getting ready to fire up the 5k. As I finished up my 5k (just over 35 min, thank you), it was time for another 30 minutes of cardio. Given my hard-fought 3.1 miles, I opted for a lazy 30 on the recumbent bike. As I picked up my Kindle to give it a read, I noticed a piece of balled up paste on the end. Wait a minute. Why would someone have paste at the gym? And why would it be balled up? And, come to think of it, it looks like it's been worked.......ewwwwwwwwwwwwww. EWWWWWWWW. Used, chewed up gum does NOT belong in a cupholder on the treadmill!!! And FURTHERMORE, now my workout is interrupted because I have to yank this gum off my Kindle cover and drown my hands in hand sanitizer. Ugh. I'm still gagging at the thought.
Seriously people, let's try to do better. *shudder*
First of all, if you are taking a class, don't steal other people's equipment. This morning I went to Muscle Max. (A class, incidentally, which was designed to workout every muscle group you may or may not have known existed. Oww.) Anyway, this class requires a lot of equipment: Stairstepper steps, risers, dumbbells, a mat, barbell and weight plates. In order to be ready for start time, you really need to get there 15 minutes early. Which is what I did this morning. For once, I was actually on time to something! I got my 7.5s, 10s, and 12.5s, a mat, a step and 2 risers, barbell, and 4 weight plates. Unfortunately, not everyone made that decision. A chick, with bottle blonde hair, hunched shoulders, and a sour disposition showed up about 5 minutes before class started. Undoubtedly bitter because she (wrongly) believes I'm dipping in her middle-aged dating pool, she totally bogarted the empty space just behind my general area. For the record, at the time she did it, the class wasn't yet filled. Prior to class starting, I propped my mat up against the nearest wall. Well, when it came time to start using the mats for push-ups, I didn't need one. (Still got tennis elbow). But, I noticed after the push-up sets that my mat was moving. Guess who was moving it? Ms. Housewife, of course. Well, as revenge, I went and got my mat when it was time for whatever the next floor exercise was. First rule of thumb, don't take someone's hard-earned mat just because you were late to class. Clearly you didn't prop it against the wall, so go get your own. Darn Housewife.
The next item up? What goes in the cupholder on the treadmill. Turns out that little plastic well is for water bottles and books (or e-readers, as the case may be). So, yesterday, I jumped on the treadmill, in my unending quest for awesome, getting ready to fire up the 5k. As I finished up my 5k (just over 35 min, thank you), it was time for another 30 minutes of cardio. Given my hard-fought 3.1 miles, I opted for a lazy 30 on the recumbent bike. As I picked up my Kindle to give it a read, I noticed a piece of balled up paste on the end. Wait a minute. Why would someone have paste at the gym? And why would it be balled up? And, come to think of it, it looks like it's been worked.......ewwwwwwwwwwwwww. EWWWWWWWW. Used, chewed up gum does NOT belong in a cupholder on the treadmill!!! And FURTHERMORE, now my workout is interrupted because I have to yank this gum off my Kindle cover and drown my hands in hand sanitizer. Ugh. I'm still gagging at the thought.
Seriously people, let's try to do better. *shudder*
Friday, July 22, 2011
True Confessions
There are times when I am feeling really philosphical. Then I ponder the answers to life's problems, discuss politics, or fantasize about heading up a charitable organization which will solve the latest world issues*.
But, it's time I admit my worst kept secret. Most of my day, I spend having banal conversation, about asinine topics, taking my subjects from the vapid** side of life. I can wax poetic for hours about Real Housewives (of every city but Miami), fashion, and gossip with abandon. I love television, chick lit, and comedies. I rarely opt for the History channel, choosing instead to give my brain cells to shows such as Jersey Shore, Single Ladies, and Man v. Food. And, I donate these cells freely! Even without television, the book I'm reading at any given moment is sure to have a hot pink cover or a picture of heels on the cover. And you know what? I'm ok with that. When you see the popular kids holding court, how often do you hear them discussing the debt ceiling?
I think part of the reason I'm ok with my total shallowness -- aside from the fact that I happen to find those topics interesting (especially shopping, boys, and fashion!!) is because somebody has to talk about them! And, the more serious and heavier topics tend to make me angry, frustrated, and hopeless. Who wants to feel like that? Sometimes, a person needs a little bit of bubbly -- and not always the kind that comes in a bottle ;).
*This last one falls into the category of "Things that are Completely False, for $500, Alex"
**Incidentally, the first time I ever read the word vapid was in one of my favorite author's book. (Either Bitter is the New Black or Bright Lights, Big Ass) Jen Lancaster is AMAZING. Friend her on Facebook, her posts are hilarious.
But, it's time I admit my worst kept secret. Most of my day, I spend having banal conversation, about asinine topics, taking my subjects from the vapid** side of life. I can wax poetic for hours about Real Housewives (of every city but Miami), fashion, and gossip with abandon. I love television, chick lit, and comedies. I rarely opt for the History channel, choosing instead to give my brain cells to shows such as Jersey Shore, Single Ladies, and Man v. Food. And, I donate these cells freely! Even without television, the book I'm reading at any given moment is sure to have a hot pink cover or a picture of heels on the cover. And you know what? I'm ok with that. When you see the popular kids holding court, how often do you hear them discussing the debt ceiling?
I think part of the reason I'm ok with my total shallowness -- aside from the fact that I happen to find those topics interesting (especially shopping, boys, and fashion!!) is because somebody has to talk about them! And, the more serious and heavier topics tend to make me angry, frustrated, and hopeless. Who wants to feel like that? Sometimes, a person needs a little bit of bubbly -- and not always the kind that comes in a bottle ;).
*This last one falls into the category of "Things that are Completely False, for $500, Alex"
**Incidentally, the first time I ever read the word vapid was in one of my favorite author's book. (Either Bitter is the New Black or Bright Lights, Big Ass) Jen Lancaster is AMAZING. Friend her on Facebook, her posts are hilarious.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Fitness modeling
I'm not sure I've ever admitted it here, but one of my secret goals in life is to become a fitness model. It all started in law school when I was reading a copy of Shape or Fitness or Oxygen magazine. While I was busy not doing the suggested exercises, and instead reading the articles, I came across the section where they interviewed and photographed some fitness models. This was shortly after I hired my very first personal trainer and set a weight loss goal for myself. One thing I noticed about all the ladies featured in the article is that they were short. Around my height. It gave me hope that I could someday grace the cover of a magazine too.
Having no clue on how to achieve this goal, it's more or less remained on the backburner. I found it resurfacing when I accepted The Mission. An acquaintance from school once told me to verbalize my goals and dreams. Because you never know who you know -- and people want to help others acheive their dreams. So, with the impending Mission, and all the work necessary to acheive my goals, I began verbalizing my desire to be a fitness model.
And, side note? It should go without saying that most of my arrogance is all bluster. I'm not trying to imply that I am hot stuff. I'm just saying that I'd like to take some pictures and have them published somewhere after I worked my ass off...literally.
Anyway, one of the people I verbalized this to was the Ninja. Pause for collective groan. As part of his frenzied offer to trespass back into my life and on my last nerve, he said he could train me. The very thought of having to deal with his over-emotional philosphizing about the state of our defunct-never-to-return-from-the-dead relationship was a lot to bear. I was fairly certain I'd turn down that offer.
Another person who made the same offer was my former trainer, the Diesel. Diesel is a ginormously freakishly huge guy. He's roughly the size of Goliath. With legs the width of tree trunks, hands the size of dinner plates, and a neck that has the same circumference as one of my not-insubstantial-thighs. To top that off, he's 7 feet tall, topped off by dreds which resemble the hair of a rag doll (Black Raggedy Ann -- Blaggedy Ann?). He's the color of dark chocolate, and has a facial structure not unlike the face of a Mayan sculptural mask. Suffice it to say, when he's around, you notice him. Unfortunately, he's also one of those huge and athletic guys, that he has no awareness of his body movements. When he's speaking to me, he would stand at roughly the same distance as one might stand relative to a puppy. (Towering and WAY too close). He is completely clueless as to the fact that my neck is breaking trying to make eye contact, and that the very act of having the conversation requires me to bed my spine in unnatural ways, and that his personal space has not only invaded mine, but has taken it over and is holding my personal space as a POW.
That said, training with him was exhausting. Yes, he whipped my butt into shape, but it took a huge amount of restraint on my part, not to substitute one of the dead lifts for exercising my quads and hams with kicking him squarely in the nuts. To accompany his herculean proportions, he also had an ego that took up most of the gym, and a pea-sized brain to go with it. I can't say that he was a stupid man. Rather, he was narrow minded. So maybe instead of a pea brain, he had a vanilla bean brain. He spent most of our sessions alternating between providing ridiculous examples of how great he was (did you know the female attorneys at the firm where he worked would ask him to come sit in their office? Just so they could look at him!!); and offending my feminist or liberal sensibilities (a man is going to stay with you, just so he can break you down.). All of this would be fine-ish, if he wasn't just preening and peacocking around in an attempt to wow me with his greatness. I doubt that he's hitting on me in particular, it's just that I'm a girl that he gets to spend an hour with once a week. And, he can reasonably be expected to touch me. But, pray-the-eff-tell, what sort of spotting requires you to touch my waist constantly? And why do I suspect that while you're watching my form, you're simultaneously picturing me naked?
While I don't think either of these offers would truly come to anything; they did make me wonder what I would put up with for a free lunch? Incessant whining and philosphizing? Or, insulting egomania? I think part of the problem is that I don't know if this dream is even worth pursuing. Without knowing anything about it, how would I know whether I could actually make this happen? What if, after I've walked 500 miles in the snow, uphill, both ways -- I find that you need to invest a large sum of money, or take a spin on the audition couch, or quit your day job to make this happen? I guess then, not only do I have a great butt, but I'm also on the verge of committing homicide for the person doing me a "favor."
Having no clue on how to achieve this goal, it's more or less remained on the backburner. I found it resurfacing when I accepted The Mission. An acquaintance from school once told me to verbalize my goals and dreams. Because you never know who you know -- and people want to help others acheive their dreams. So, with the impending Mission, and all the work necessary to acheive my goals, I began verbalizing my desire to be a fitness model.
And, side note? It should go without saying that most of my arrogance is all bluster. I'm not trying to imply that I am hot stuff. I'm just saying that I'd like to take some pictures and have them published somewhere after I worked my ass off...literally.
Anyway, one of the people I verbalized this to was the Ninja. Pause for collective groan. As part of his frenzied offer to trespass back into my life and on my last nerve, he said he could train me. The very thought of having to deal with his over-emotional philosphizing about the state of our defunct-never-to-return-from-the-dead relationship was a lot to bear. I was fairly certain I'd turn down that offer.
Another person who made the same offer was my former trainer, the Diesel. Diesel is a ginormously freakishly huge guy. He's roughly the size of Goliath. With legs the width of tree trunks, hands the size of dinner plates, and a neck that has the same circumference as one of my not-insubstantial-thighs. To top that off, he's 7 feet tall, topped off by dreds which resemble the hair of a rag doll (Black Raggedy Ann -- Blaggedy Ann?). He's the color of dark chocolate, and has a facial structure not unlike the face of a Mayan sculptural mask. Suffice it to say, when he's around, you notice him. Unfortunately, he's also one of those huge and athletic guys, that he has no awareness of his body movements. When he's speaking to me, he would stand at roughly the same distance as one might stand relative to a puppy. (Towering and WAY too close). He is completely clueless as to the fact that my neck is breaking trying to make eye contact, and that the very act of having the conversation requires me to bed my spine in unnatural ways, and that his personal space has not only invaded mine, but has taken it over and is holding my personal space as a POW.
That said, training with him was exhausting. Yes, he whipped my butt into shape, but it took a huge amount of restraint on my part, not to substitute one of the dead lifts for exercising my quads and hams with kicking him squarely in the nuts. To accompany his herculean proportions, he also had an ego that took up most of the gym, and a pea-sized brain to go with it. I can't say that he was a stupid man. Rather, he was narrow minded. So maybe instead of a pea brain, he had a vanilla bean brain. He spent most of our sessions alternating between providing ridiculous examples of how great he was (did you know the female attorneys at the firm where he worked would ask him to come sit in their office? Just so they could look at him!!); and offending my feminist or liberal sensibilities (a man is going to stay with you, just so he can break you down.). All of this would be fine-ish, if he wasn't just preening and peacocking around in an attempt to wow me with his greatness. I doubt that he's hitting on me in particular, it's just that I'm a girl that he gets to spend an hour with once a week. And, he can reasonably be expected to touch me. But, pray-the-eff-tell, what sort of spotting requires you to touch my waist constantly? And why do I suspect that while you're watching my form, you're simultaneously picturing me naked?
While I don't think either of these offers would truly come to anything; they did make me wonder what I would put up with for a free lunch? Incessant whining and philosphizing? Or, insulting egomania? I think part of the problem is that I don't know if this dream is even worth pursuing. Without knowing anything about it, how would I know whether I could actually make this happen? What if, after I've walked 500 miles in the snow, uphill, both ways -- I find that you need to invest a large sum of money, or take a spin on the audition couch, or quit your day job to make this happen? I guess then, not only do I have a great butt, but I'm also on the verge of committing homicide for the person doing me a "favor."
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
What can you see?
Have you ever noticed that what people may see in you is rarely what you see in yourself? There's a song by Marvin Sapp, called The Best in Me. In that song, he's speaking about the joys of God seeing the best in him, when no one else could see it. It's about the joy of knowing God loves you no matter what.
People, on the other hand, are not always as kind. But there are times when mere mortals are able to see the best in you. It is these times that I find most interesting. Have you ever paid attention to the compliments people give you? Or, even if it's not a compliment, some of the factual observations people make? How often do those jive with what you think about yourself? As a society, we spend a fair amount of time working on our outward facing image. During that prep time, we rarely (if ever) consider what people are truly seeing. Despite the rampant shallowness that seems to rule the world; friends, family, and acquaintances are often looking at more than your Louboutins and Coach belt. They are looking at what they see within you.
What I wonder, is why is it that we rarely see what they see? Why is it that other people can see leadership potential, charisma, and intelligence -- but we can't. A mirror's reflective surface can't show you what's on the inside, but spending time with yourself can. We don't take enough time to be introspective. I'm not advocating any sort of New Age hippy-dippy nonsense, but I am saying you should be aware of your own skills. Success is knowing what you're made of, and then using it. For those bad things (of which we all have some), you can't change what you don't acknowledge*. A little introspection never hurt anyone.
And, I'll say it again. Once you know what you're made of, you have to use it. Take your skills and turn them into something fabulous! And then, take your weaknesses and work them until they become strengths. We should work on our insides at least 50% as much as we work on our outsides, shouldn't we?
*Yup. I totally quoted Dr. Phil. On purpose.
People, on the other hand, are not always as kind. But there are times when mere mortals are able to see the best in you. It is these times that I find most interesting. Have you ever paid attention to the compliments people give you? Or, even if it's not a compliment, some of the factual observations people make? How often do those jive with what you think about yourself? As a society, we spend a fair amount of time working on our outward facing image. During that prep time, we rarely (if ever) consider what people are truly seeing. Despite the rampant shallowness that seems to rule the world; friends, family, and acquaintances are often looking at more than your Louboutins and Coach belt. They are looking at what they see within you.
What I wonder, is why is it that we rarely see what they see? Why is it that other people can see leadership potential, charisma, and intelligence -- but we can't. A mirror's reflective surface can't show you what's on the inside, but spending time with yourself can. We don't take enough time to be introspective. I'm not advocating any sort of New Age hippy-dippy nonsense, but I am saying you should be aware of your own skills. Success is knowing what you're made of, and then using it. For those bad things (of which we all have some), you can't change what you don't acknowledge*. A little introspection never hurt anyone.
And, I'll say it again. Once you know what you're made of, you have to use it. Take your skills and turn them into something fabulous! And then, take your weaknesses and work them until they become strengths. We should work on our insides at least 50% as much as we work on our outsides, shouldn't we?
*Yup. I totally quoted Dr. Phil. On purpose.
To refrain....
Recently, I've been on a tour of my dating history (through no fault of my own, mind you). I've enjoyed this little jaunt through my past dating lives, although I would like to know what caused all the boys to come out of the woodwork.
For the most part, they haven't really said anything particularly groundbreaking. There's been a lot of buttering up -- reminding me of how good he was at cooking (Astro); disparaging "the new guy" for not hooking up my surround sound (Titan); telling me he admitted to his friend that he messed up our relationship (the young blood from the southside*). But, the most interesting conversations have been those that I like to call: "Why We Broke Up: A Recap" or "Were We Even In the Same Relationship?!!". It never ceases to amaze me just how clueless a guy can be as to why a relationship ended. Especially when the girl does the ending. Part of me believes that the arrogance of (some) guys won't let them believe that the break-up was their fault. Part of me believes that (some) guys just aren't listening. That auditory fail then results in shock and surprise when the relationship is over. *Shrug*. Either way, the results are the same. I end up spending a couple hours of my life explaining the real reason why relationships end.
There are times when these conversations can be somewhat enlightening. The latest example of this is my conversation with the Titan. He has more or less been in complete denial about the nature of our "relationship" (a term I use loosely) and the reason for its demise. I've been told that it was over on his end because I wanted a boyfriend and he wasn't ready to do that; or it ended because I thought I was just a side-piece; or that it didn't work out because I never gave him a fair chance. The list goes on. It's taken 2 years, but we've finally gotten down to the bottom of why it was over. For the record, my official stance is that it ended because he wanted to keep his options open, and I was done "kickin' it." Last week, he said that he couldn't get serious because the "hot spice" (his words, I swear!!) is an important part of a relationship, and since I wasn't giving it up, he wasn't ready to go all in. I let him know that I'm positive this isn't the first time a relationship of mine has ended for this reason, but he's definitely the first to admit it. He hastily backpedaled and said that he thought it was a good thing "that you're doing" and he understands it. (No guy wants to be known as the guy who broke up with a girl because she wouldn't give it up when he asked). But....(and there's always a but)...he just couldn't do it. He could see himself marrying me (huh?); we always have fun together (we do?); we never run out of things to talk about (say what?); and on and on and on. But, he just couldn't go all in without knowing. So... his solution? Let me share it: "is there anyway there could be a loophole? Say, once or twice a month?" For real. That was it. PAH HAHAHAHAHAHA. And this is the part where I nearly fell out of my chair laughing. Ok listen, I know that the hot spice is important. And, I've had that conversation a thousand times. But dude, the whole point of abstaining is that you're abstaining. If you indulge every once in a while, you are no longer abstaining. You're participating.
I also know that I'm in the extreme minority on this issue. (Btw, I'm dancing around the phrasing so this post will remain suitable for work -- and because pheebee's Ma reads the blog. Hi Ma!!!!). But, there are several reasons for me to be waiting. Rather than typing it, I will let someone far more articulate explain it:
And so, I will wait. Alone, apparently.
*Suggestions on a shorthand for that handle are welcome!!
For the most part, they haven't really said anything particularly groundbreaking. There's been a lot of buttering up -- reminding me of how good he was at cooking (Astro); disparaging "the new guy" for not hooking up my surround sound (Titan); telling me he admitted to his friend that he messed up our relationship (the young blood from the southside*). But, the most interesting conversations have been those that I like to call: "Why We Broke Up: A Recap" or "Were We Even In the Same Relationship?!!". It never ceases to amaze me just how clueless a guy can be as to why a relationship ended. Especially when the girl does the ending. Part of me believes that the arrogance of (some) guys won't let them believe that the break-up was their fault. Part of me believes that (some) guys just aren't listening. That auditory fail then results in shock and surprise when the relationship is over. *Shrug*. Either way, the results are the same. I end up spending a couple hours of my life explaining the real reason why relationships end.
There are times when these conversations can be somewhat enlightening. The latest example of this is my conversation with the Titan. He has more or less been in complete denial about the nature of our "relationship" (a term I use loosely) and the reason for its demise. I've been told that it was over on his end because I wanted a boyfriend and he wasn't ready to do that; or it ended because I thought I was just a side-piece; or that it didn't work out because I never gave him a fair chance. The list goes on. It's taken 2 years, but we've finally gotten down to the bottom of why it was over. For the record, my official stance is that it ended because he wanted to keep his options open, and I was done "kickin' it." Last week, he said that he couldn't get serious because the "hot spice" (his words, I swear!!) is an important part of a relationship, and since I wasn't giving it up, he wasn't ready to go all in. I let him know that I'm positive this isn't the first time a relationship of mine has ended for this reason, but he's definitely the first to admit it. He hastily backpedaled and said that he thought it was a good thing "that you're doing" and he understands it. (No guy wants to be known as the guy who broke up with a girl because she wouldn't give it up when he asked). But....(and there's always a but)...he just couldn't do it. He could see himself marrying me (huh?); we always have fun together (we do?); we never run out of things to talk about (say what?); and on and on and on. But, he just couldn't go all in without knowing. So... his solution? Let me share it: "is there anyway there could be a loophole? Say, once or twice a month?" For real. That was it. PAH HAHAHAHAHAHA. And this is the part where I nearly fell out of my chair laughing. Ok listen, I know that the hot spice is important. And, I've had that conversation a thousand times. But dude, the whole point of abstaining is that you're abstaining. If you indulge every once in a while, you are no longer abstaining. You're participating.
I also know that I'm in the extreme minority on this issue. (Btw, I'm dancing around the phrasing so this post will remain suitable for work -- and because pheebee's Ma reads the blog. Hi Ma!!!!). But, there are several reasons for me to be waiting. Rather than typing it, I will let someone far more articulate explain it:
And so, I will wait. Alone, apparently.
*Suggestions on a shorthand for that handle are welcome!!
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Whoever said "You can never be too skinny...."
Was probably some skinny bitch and jealous of all the real women around her. If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times...fashion model skinny ain't cuttin' it.
This article covers it very well...basically, lots of gay men chasing youth are placing unnecessary pressure on women to try to look like teenage boys. (That's the article theory, not mine...). No matter the reason, essentially, a lot of people out of touch with reality are creating an image of beauty that doesn't really jive with what regular society calls hot and sexy.
I suspect the fashion moguls are out of touch the way CEOs of companies are out of touch with what really happens on the ground. In retail, the C-suite sets sales goals for different stores in their retail chain. They do this without ever setting foot in some of the stores. So, pray-tell, how do you know how a store is doing? How can you tell what their level of success is, if you truly have no idea what shoppers in that town are thinking? And don't tell me you worked your way up the ranks...even if you had (you didn't), I know for a fact you're overestimating your skills in hindsight.
Oops. I digressed. So what I'm saying is, it's simple. Stop chasing the silly image forced on you from on high (evidently, real high. Acid, maybe?). Instead, re-define your image. See yourself as a sensual, hot mamacita. Not some walking praying-mantis. Think about it. If you saw a praying mantis in real life, you'd either: 1. run away screaming, or 2. (if you're bold) squish the thing. So please explain to me why you want to attempt to look like a giant bobble-headed stick thin green bug? You aren't even the right color to pull that off. Pull your shoulders back, swing your hips, and for goodness sake, let the boys figure out how much time they have left to speak to you when they're staring (hypnotically) at your hourglass shape. I mean seriously -- no such thing as too skinny? Pfft.
This article covers it very well...basically, lots of gay men chasing youth are placing unnecessary pressure on women to try to look like teenage boys. (That's the article theory, not mine...). No matter the reason, essentially, a lot of people out of touch with reality are creating an image of beauty that doesn't really jive with what regular society calls hot and sexy.
I suspect the fashion moguls are out of touch the way CEOs of companies are out of touch with what really happens on the ground. In retail, the C-suite sets sales goals for different stores in their retail chain. They do this without ever setting foot in some of the stores. So, pray-tell, how do you know how a store is doing? How can you tell what their level of success is, if you truly have no idea what shoppers in that town are thinking? And don't tell me you worked your way up the ranks...even if you had (you didn't), I know for a fact you're overestimating your skills in hindsight.
Oops. I digressed. So what I'm saying is, it's simple. Stop chasing the silly image forced on you from on high (evidently, real high. Acid, maybe?). Instead, re-define your image. See yourself as a sensual, hot mamacita. Not some walking praying-mantis. Think about it. If you saw a praying mantis in real life, you'd either: 1. run away screaming, or 2. (if you're bold) squish the thing. So please explain to me why you want to attempt to look like a giant bobble-headed stick thin green bug? You aren't even the right color to pull that off. Pull your shoulders back, swing your hips, and for goodness sake, let the boys figure out how much time they have left to speak to you when they're staring (hypnotically) at your hourglass shape. I mean seriously -- no such thing as too skinny? Pfft.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Hairy Eyeballs.
Every night, I wash my face with facial cleanser. Twice a week, I exfoliate with a gentle Clinique wash. All of this in addition to whatever else I'm doing in the shower. When I get out of the shower, I brush my teeth, floss, and then rinse with Scope, Crest mouthwash, or Listerine (whichever was on sale). Then, it's back to facial care. I follow it up with an age-defying night cream, and every other day, Clinique Even Better.
Come morning time (after a regular toothbrushing, of course), I put on SPF 15 containing face "Uplifting" cream. Only to be followed by Anti-Ageing primer (which smells like oranges). This is before the makeup routine even starts. When it's time to start the war paint, I prep with Urban Decay Eyeshadow Potion. Followed by SPF15 liquid foundation, Mineralize powder, blush, shadow, eyeliner, and mascara. And then, and only then, can I actually leave the house.
Here's my question: Who decided what the definition of beauty. Certain things make sense. Blush, I get, because color in the cheeks is a sign of health. And even-ing out the skin tone with foundation I get, because symmetry is apparently scientifically attractive. And if you consider eyeshadow merely an accessory, then it's always fun to play with color. (And who doesn't love an excuse to coordinate yet another aspect of an outfit?)
But, when did we decide that hairy eyeballs is beautiful? I mean really, I love the look of long dark eyelashes, but what purpose does mascara truly serve? And, for the record, I have yet to hear a man say "she has beautiful eyelashes." And, if we're making hairy eyeballs beautiful, then why is a bald forehead beautiful? We've moved from plucking to waxing to threading. And, you know what? All of them are painful! For what possible purpose are we removing forehead hair? And don't even get me started on leg-shaving or bikini waxing!!!
All of that, and those are only surface changes. There are women who will go under the knife in the name of beauty. This isn't a post about body dysmorphia and that ilk. I get that there are women who have been screwed in the head by a zillion different outside (and inside) influences. My question stems more from the definition of surface beauty. The little things that women do to themselves in order to look prettier. Is the benefit from the additional pretty disproportionate to the amount of pain in the arse suffered? If I was going to guess, my answer would be yes.
I like to tease 2DP...that the only reason he ever does anything (workout, wear cologne, drive a nice car...) is to get women. A fact he more or less admits. But, the things women do aren't really impressing most men. (See above-mentioned note re: long eyelashes). So why are women going through all of this work to impress each other, when we know full well how much pain it causes? I propose a movement -- the 5 minute face will be a 5 minute face INCLUDING prep time. From now on, Project Make-up Optional should be exercised more often.
Come morning time (after a regular toothbrushing, of course), I put on SPF 15 containing face "Uplifting" cream. Only to be followed by Anti-Ageing primer (which smells like oranges). This is before the makeup routine even starts. When it's time to start the war paint, I prep with Urban Decay Eyeshadow Potion. Followed by SPF15 liquid foundation, Mineralize powder, blush, shadow, eyeliner, and mascara. And then, and only then, can I actually leave the house.
Here's my question: Who decided what the definition of beauty. Certain things make sense. Blush, I get, because color in the cheeks is a sign of health. And even-ing out the skin tone with foundation I get, because symmetry is apparently scientifically attractive. And if you consider eyeshadow merely an accessory, then it's always fun to play with color. (And who doesn't love an excuse to coordinate yet another aspect of an outfit?)
But, when did we decide that hairy eyeballs is beautiful? I mean really, I love the look of long dark eyelashes, but what purpose does mascara truly serve? And, for the record, I have yet to hear a man say "she has beautiful eyelashes." And, if we're making hairy eyeballs beautiful, then why is a bald forehead beautiful? We've moved from plucking to waxing to threading. And, you know what? All of them are painful! For what possible purpose are we removing forehead hair? And don't even get me started on leg-shaving or bikini waxing!!!
All of that, and those are only surface changes. There are women who will go under the knife in the name of beauty. This isn't a post about body dysmorphia and that ilk. I get that there are women who have been screwed in the head by a zillion different outside (and inside) influences. My question stems more from the definition of surface beauty. The little things that women do to themselves in order to look prettier. Is the benefit from the additional pretty disproportionate to the amount of pain in the arse suffered? If I was going to guess, my answer would be yes.
I like to tease 2DP...that the only reason he ever does anything (workout, wear cologne, drive a nice car...) is to get women. A fact he more or less admits. But, the things women do aren't really impressing most men. (See above-mentioned note re: long eyelashes). So why are women going through all of this work to impress each other, when we know full well how much pain it causes? I propose a movement -- the 5 minute face will be a 5 minute face INCLUDING prep time. From now on, Project Make-up Optional should be exercised more often.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Smoke out
Can I pick the next group to be "separate but equal"? I'd like to choose smokers.
Today, (right now actually. Isn't technology crazy?!?!, I was sitting on the train, when the guy next to me got up to get off at the next stop. Well, his siesta was quickly filled by someone. Upon him sitting down, my sense of smell was immediately assaulted by his stale smoke leftover from his early morning stroll down cancer lane. Hey, I always say, what you do at home is none of my business...until it starts to invade my personal space. And this guy? All up in my personal space.
I am sitting here, forced to take short labored breaths to avoid getting a full blast of that just back from the smokers' lounge smell. I'm pretty sure my lungs haven't taken in more oxygen than an infant's lungs in about 5 stops. I'm further damaged by the fact that he's hindering my ability to fight my already losing battle against aging. Because I'm so disgusted, I've been involuntarily scowling for a good 9 minutes. All the good worklSt night's deep wrinkle cream did, promptly undone. Any longer and the people who think I don't look young will bs right. Which is more than a little bogus. I take more than a little pride in proving that petty nonsense wrong.
My solution? In addition to creating a smoking area, make it mandatory for smokers to stayin that area. At least until they can prove that they are no longer offensively smokey the bear. Besides, separate but equal is equal, right?
Today, (right now actually. Isn't technology crazy?!?!, I was sitting on the train, when the guy next to me got up to get off at the next stop. Well, his siesta was quickly filled by someone. Upon him sitting down, my sense of smell was immediately assaulted by his stale smoke leftover from his early morning stroll down cancer lane. Hey, I always say, what you do at home is none of my business...until it starts to invade my personal space. And this guy? All up in my personal space.
I am sitting here, forced to take short labored breaths to avoid getting a full blast of that just back from the smokers' lounge smell. I'm pretty sure my lungs haven't taken in more oxygen than an infant's lungs in about 5 stops. I'm further damaged by the fact that he's hindering my ability to fight my already losing battle against aging. Because I'm so disgusted, I've been involuntarily scowling for a good 9 minutes. All the good worklSt night's deep wrinkle cream did, promptly undone. Any longer and the people who think I don't look young will bs right. Which is more than a little bogus. I take more than a little pride in proving that petty nonsense wrong.
My solution? In addition to creating a smoking area, make it mandatory for smokers to stayin that area. At least until they can prove that they are no longer offensively smokey the bear. Besides, separate but equal is equal, right?
Thursday, July 14, 2011
You're under arrest....for real
I came across this news story the other day. And, that led me to let out a silent yelp of joy. (It would have been a loud YAWP*** but alas, I was at work.) If I could put together a fashion police force, I would feel a thousand times better. For those who don't want to click on the link, the essence of the article is that a small town in southern Illinois has passed an ordinance outlawing saggy pants. Violators will be subject to a fine.
Ignoring -- for the moment -- the open invitation for racial profiling; I would like to celebrate this particular movement. Sagging pants have been in style since at least the early nineties, if not earlier. (My most recent memory of them is Kris Kross. But then again, their pants were also backwards). Sagging has got to be the single longest running trend, ever. And it just refuses to die! I just don't understand what the hold up is.
We've all heard the stories about how sagging started in prison, and was indicative of who was willing to get down and who wasn't on the homosexuality tip. And that's all well and good. If you want to rock a jailbird trend, far be it from me to judge. For the first decade. But, we are slowly working on decade number 3, and the trend has no signs of stopping. These idiots are walking around with their pants so low I can definitively tell you the color of their underwear. In order to walk, these idiots have to hold their pants up, to keep them from falling down. Frankly, I think they should just stop wearing pants at all.
The most egregious part of the "evolution" of the trend, is the addition of belts. I guess they got tired of hearing the old folks whine about the lack of belts. But, instead of buying a belt of their own size, and subsequently wearing their pants near their waist, the trend is to purchase a belt the size of the pants, and belt the pants at their knees. ARRRRGH.
Aside from the prison overtone, this trend ticks me off for additional reasons. Allow me to list them for you:
1. It makes a man's legs look like they're 2 inches long. I've never wanted a short man; I've never wanted a man who had a disproportionately long torso. And I don't intend to start now!
2. The holding of the pants. If you're walking about holding your pants up to keep them from falling down, you deserve to trip and fall in a puddle, while a dime piece is looking on...laughing at your dumbass.
3. Finally, you have no business asking for my number. Or hell, talking to me at all. If I can't trust you to buy pants your own size, I can't trust you to do a damn thing else.
Cart them all off to jail if you ask me! Fine them for all they got!!! Just sayin'.
***Give yourself 2 points if you caught that reference.
Ignoring -- for the moment -- the open invitation for racial profiling; I would like to celebrate this particular movement. Sagging pants have been in style since at least the early nineties, if not earlier. (My most recent memory of them is Kris Kross. But then again, their pants were also backwards). Sagging has got to be the single longest running trend, ever. And it just refuses to die! I just don't understand what the hold up is.
We've all heard the stories about how sagging started in prison, and was indicative of who was willing to get down and who wasn't on the homosexuality tip. And that's all well and good. If you want to rock a jailbird trend, far be it from me to judge. For the first decade. But, we are slowly working on decade number 3, and the trend has no signs of stopping. These idiots are walking around with their pants so low I can definitively tell you the color of their underwear. In order to walk, these idiots have to hold their pants up, to keep them from falling down. Frankly, I think they should just stop wearing pants at all.
The most egregious part of the "evolution" of the trend, is the addition of belts. I guess they got tired of hearing the old folks whine about the lack of belts. But, instead of buying a belt of their own size, and subsequently wearing their pants near their waist, the trend is to purchase a belt the size of the pants, and belt the pants at their knees. ARRRRGH.
Aside from the prison overtone, this trend ticks me off for additional reasons. Allow me to list them for you:
1. It makes a man's legs look like they're 2 inches long. I've never wanted a short man; I've never wanted a man who had a disproportionately long torso. And I don't intend to start now!
2. The holding of the pants. If you're walking about holding your pants up to keep them from falling down, you deserve to trip and fall in a puddle, while a dime piece is looking on...laughing at your dumbass.
3. Finally, you have no business asking for my number. Or hell, talking to me at all. If I can't trust you to buy pants your own size, I can't trust you to do a damn thing else.
Cart them all off to jail if you ask me! Fine them for all they got!!! Just sayin'.
***Give yourself 2 points if you caught that reference.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Cater 2 U
I frequently wax poetic about what a woman wants, in an effort to help men give their women more romance in their lives. But I rarely consider what a man wants. Let's operate under the theory that a happy man is more likely to romance a woman. So, how often do women think about making a man happy? Rarely. I suspect that's because most of us women secretly think that men are idiots and/or all they want is sex. Which is probably mostly true (I kid, I kid), but that doesn't mean the simple creatures don't deserve happiness, right? I mean, you throw your dog a bone every once in a while, don't you?
Ok then. So I asked a few of my guy friends and exes what it takes to make a man happy. After I got past the BS answers they all thought I wanted to hear, we got down to brass tacks. You know what a man wants? He wants to be catered to; to feel like a king. How do you do that? The most common request I've ever heard is cooking. A good meal, or even a putting together a nice spread for him and his friends when they're going to watch the fight. Then of course there are the intangibles -- listening when he's talking, letting him feel like he's in charge, letting him feel like the big man on campus.
My friend the officer said it best: "Men just want someone to like them. In return for letting us feel like we're in charge, we buy you things...In subsequent return for us buying you things, you let us touch your boobs."
Well said, my friend. Well said.
Ok then. So I asked a few of my guy friends and exes what it takes to make a man happy. After I got past the BS answers they all thought I wanted to hear, we got down to brass tacks. You know what a man wants? He wants to be catered to; to feel like a king. How do you do that? The most common request I've ever heard is cooking. A good meal, or even a putting together a nice spread for him and his friends when they're going to watch the fight. Then of course there are the intangibles -- listening when he's talking, letting him feel like he's in charge, letting him feel like the big man on campus.
My friend the officer said it best: "Men just want someone to like them. In return for letting us feel like we're in charge, we buy you things...In subsequent return for us buying you things, you let us touch your boobs."
Well said, my friend. Well said.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Racial lenses
Sometimes, you have to stop and think about differences. We all know that life in America is experienced differently depending on your race. (At least I hope we all know that. I hope that everyone reading this is not under some delusion that we've officially reached some post-racial world. If you believe that, please put yourself in a time-out until you have a reality check.) But the idea of how that experience is different can often be a vague and amorphous notion. Sort of like you know that horses are fast, the desert is hot, and Danielle from Real Housewives of NJ is crazy.
Ever since moving to Chicago, my racial awareness has been in overdrive. Part of it, I think, is that I am finally comfortable with my identity; and how I operate as a black woman. Another part of it is the rather sharp division of friendships I've fostered in the city. Much like the city itself, my friendships are completely segregated and always have been. There's the Cashmere Mafia, which was made up entirely of women of color, and the Fantasy Football League, which was made up entirely of white women. That said, it wasn't that these groups of women were unwilling to hang out with one another. Kaia is a testament to that, being that she'd hang out with me with both sets...that said, I suspect this lane changing was more of a result of her being a ride or die chick, who's always down. Anyway, my point is, while most everyone was willing to kick it with whomever, the groups generally remained separate, with divergent interests and tastes in activities. (Which incidentally left me in sometimes awkward positions, but that's a post for another day).
Thanks to this slight (major?) shift in my own perception, I've noticed some of the ways in which black people and white people see things. And, as always, I've decided to share those observations here.
#1. Let's start with an easy one, and one that I didn't come up with. (Thanks to the anonymous website commenter who posted this). Ok, picture it. It's a busy street corner in New York. A cab driver is at the end of his shift, and he just dropped off his last fare. He zooms down the street, in a hurry to get home and get the heck out of his cab. A white guy raises his arm to hail the cab, but the driver keeps going. Likewise, up the street a ways, a black guy raises his arm to hail the same cab, but the driver keeps going. What are their likely reactions? I bet the white guy thinks nothing of it, figuring the cab didn't see him, or some other explanation that has nothing to do with him. The black guy, meanwhile, may be more inclined to believe the cab driver intentionally went by, because he's black. (I'm told that hailing a cab in NYC for a black man can be hit or miss). Now, it's not that the white guy is arrogant, it's just that he hasn't grown up in a society where he's ignored on the basis of who he is. At least, not often enough that it'd be his first thought. Meanwhile, the black man has enough anecdotal evidence and personal experience to justify this reaction. The reality here is that this particular cab driver didn't see either guy -- he was just done for the day.
#2. This one just happened to me at the grocery store. I was in the produce section choosing apples. And in a not-the-brightest-moment left my purse in my cart. I'm smart enough to know better, but I did it anyway. So, as I'm leaning over the apple bin, I sense someone near my cart. I look over my shoulder and see that it's a guy – and promptly adjust myself to be closer to my purse, just in case ol' boy gets froggy. Now, if it had been a black man, I would have felt guilty, because the whole reason I was moving was to protect my purse, and I'd feel bad if he thought I was doing it because of a reaction to
a stereotype -- rather than because I live in a city where people steal things. However, it wasn't a black man. It was some white guy, who when I shifted said "oh no, you're fine." He thought I was shifting because I was politely moving out of his way. At this point, I found myself feeling slight indignation. Look man, everyone isn't here to make your life easier! I'm moving because you're standing too effing close to my purse!!! Why don't you understand that?!!??!! Rather than point this out, I merely reminded myself that this is a situation that racial lenses will change a perception quick and in a hurry. But I admit. I'd feel a whole lot better if just once that guy knew what it was a like for someone to pull their belongings in a little bit closer just because he walked down the street. There, I said it.
So what does all this mean? I have no idea. My thing is, I can see all of these things happening, and I know what my reaction is, but I don't think there is a wrong way or a right way to react to these things. I think what's important is to first observe the differences-- then and only then can we begin to work on solutions.
Ever since moving to Chicago, my racial awareness has been in overdrive. Part of it, I think, is that I am finally comfortable with my identity; and how I operate as a black woman. Another part of it is the rather sharp division of friendships I've fostered in the city. Much like the city itself, my friendships are completely segregated and always have been. There's the Cashmere Mafia, which was made up entirely of women of color, and the Fantasy Football League, which was made up entirely of white women. That said, it wasn't that these groups of women were unwilling to hang out with one another. Kaia is a testament to that, being that she'd hang out with me with both sets...that said, I suspect this lane changing was more of a result of her being a ride or die chick, who's always down. Anyway, my point is, while most everyone was willing to kick it with whomever, the groups generally remained separate, with divergent interests and tastes in activities. (Which incidentally left me in sometimes awkward positions, but that's a post for another day).
Thanks to this slight (major?) shift in my own perception, I've noticed some of the ways in which black people and white people see things. And, as always, I've decided to share those observations here.
#1. Let's start with an easy one, and one that I didn't come up with. (Thanks to the anonymous website commenter who posted this). Ok, picture it. It's a busy street corner in New York. A cab driver is at the end of his shift, and he just dropped off his last fare. He zooms down the street, in a hurry to get home and get the heck out of his cab. A white guy raises his arm to hail the cab, but the driver keeps going. Likewise, up the street a ways, a black guy raises his arm to hail the same cab, but the driver keeps going. What are their likely reactions? I bet the white guy thinks nothing of it, figuring the cab didn't see him, or some other explanation that has nothing to do with him. The black guy, meanwhile, may be more inclined to believe the cab driver intentionally went by, because he's black. (I'm told that hailing a cab in NYC for a black man can be hit or miss). Now, it's not that the white guy is arrogant, it's just that he hasn't grown up in a society where he's ignored on the basis of who he is. At least, not often enough that it'd be his first thought. Meanwhile, the black man has enough anecdotal evidence and personal experience to justify this reaction. The reality here is that this particular cab driver didn't see either guy -- he was just done for the day.
#2. This one just happened to me at the grocery store. I was in the produce section choosing apples. And in a not-the-brightest-moment left my purse in my cart. I'm smart enough to know better, but I did it anyway. So, as I'm leaning over the apple bin, I sense someone near my cart. I look over my shoulder and see that it's a guy – and promptly adjust myself to be closer to my purse, just in case ol' boy gets froggy. Now, if it had been a black man, I would have felt guilty, because the whole reason I was moving was to protect my purse, and I'd feel bad if he thought I was doing it because of a reaction to
a stereotype -- rather than because I live in a city where people steal things. However, it wasn't a black man. It was some white guy, who when I shifted said "oh no, you're fine." He thought I was shifting because I was politely moving out of his way. At this point, I found myself feeling slight indignation. Look man, everyone isn't here to make your life easier! I'm moving because you're standing too effing close to my purse!!! Why don't you understand that?!!??!! Rather than point this out, I merely reminded myself that this is a situation that racial lenses will change a perception quick and in a hurry. But I admit. I'd feel a whole lot better if just once that guy knew what it was a like for someone to pull their belongings in a little bit closer just because he walked down the street. There, I said it.
So what does all this mean? I have no idea. My thing is, I can see all of these things happening, and I know what my reaction is, but I don't think there is a wrong way or a right way to react to these things. I think what's important is to first observe the differences-- then and only then can we begin to work on solutions.
Monday, July 11, 2011
This Post Brought to you by Ne-Yo
You know what really bugs me? There's a song by Pitbull featuring Ne-Yo called "Give Me Everything," and in that song at the very beginning, I swear Pitbull says Ne-Yo's name incorrectly. I can't be the only person that hears this!! It's even more obvious because during the song he also corrects himself. So it goes "Pitbull, Nigh-Yo Nee-Yo...that's right." WTF!!??!!? How is no one talking about this?!
And this is where Ne-Yo's video comes in again. At the end of the video, Ne-Yo is distracted by gorgeous girls dancing with him. He's still singing the song to the first girl (who's one in a million, of course), but he's so distracted by the performance that he doesn't notice her first getting frustrated, and then walking away.
In a moment where art imitates life, this is precisely what came to be the end of my relationship with Astro. He was still talking a big game, but 4 weeks went by and I saw neither hide nor tail of him. I've never thought it was another woman (I mean seriously, what woman could ever measure up to pheebee? Ok ok, other than Eva Longoria, Halle Berry, Serena Williams, or J.Lo). But business/life/whatever became his mistress. And in that case, mistress trumps girl. And thus, it ended. I took the next cab out, and didn't look back. (Until the aforementioned wedding, apparently).
At the end of the video, Ne-Yo doesn't notice the girl leaving -- and neither did Astro. But, I'm already aware that I'm one in a million. ;).
All of this was over a year ago, so you can forego the pity party. As with any relationship, I learned a few things. I learned that there is a rare breed of guy that still courts a woman when he's interested. And there's also a rare breed of guy that cooks. Sadly, dating Astro only raised the bar of things I'll look for in a man. But, it also taught me the art of putting my foot down. Sometimes girls, and by sometimes I mean always, there's just no reason to settle.
Anyway. Aside form lyrical shenanigans, Ne-Yo is on my mind tonight because his video reminds me of a past relationship. My gym has small tvs on each of the cardio machines; and it's a fantastic way to distract me from the upsetting exercise of, well, exercising. One of the videos that came on during my run was "One in a Million." It's a great song...it's classic Ne-Yo wooing the ladies with his warm-your-heart lyrics and creating the impulse that makes a girl go "awww." Likewise, the video is pretty awesome. Here's a brief synopsis (necessary for the point I'm making, I promise): In the video, Ne-Yo sees a girl at a restaurant, and proceeds to attempt to woo her. But the girl? Wholly unimpressed and uninterested. She walks away when his back is turned, and he has to chase after her. When he catches up to her, he gives her a rose, but she waves it away. She makes an attempt at a clean getaway again, but he finally does something to make her stay and listen. She begins with a small smile, and he proceeds to sing her praises in the middle of the street. Aww...
Know what this video made me think of? Astro. Since I've been on a bit of a hiatus, y'all missed the mini-saga (mini is relative, you see) that was my relationship with Astro. But, I think Ne-Yo's video pretty much sums it up. He did a great job of doing the chasing. When we first met, he didn't call. So, I brushed him off as another one of those guys that asks for numbers for sport, rather than actually wanting to call. *Shrug.* A month later, he shows up at my office, and just wants to talk. I tell him he missed the boat and to kick rocks. He says, "I'll pick you up Starbucks." I say, "ok. I'll give you another chance" (sometimes an addiction leads you to make poor decisions). Then, he disappears again. Then he shows up again, and does a masterful mind meld to get me to go out with him. I'll save the details, but it wasn't unlike Ne-Yo's machinations in the video. The next several weeks were fantastic. I was falling hard and fast for a great guy. But, you know what? It's easy to be a great guy for a couple months. Sustainability is what separates the men from the boys.
And this is where Ne-Yo's video comes in again. At the end of the video, Ne-Yo is distracted by gorgeous girls dancing with him. He's still singing the song to the first girl (who's one in a million, of course), but he's so distracted by the performance that he doesn't notice her first getting frustrated, and then walking away.
In a moment where art imitates life, this is precisely what came to be the end of my relationship with Astro. He was still talking a big game, but 4 weeks went by and I saw neither hide nor tail of him. I've never thought it was another woman (I mean seriously, what woman could ever measure up to pheebee? Ok ok, other than Eva Longoria, Halle Berry, Serena Williams, or J.Lo). But business/life/whatever became his mistress. And in that case, mistress trumps girl. And thus, it ended. I took the next cab out, and didn't look back. (Until the aforementioned wedding, apparently).
At the end of the video, Ne-Yo doesn't notice the girl leaving -- and neither did Astro. But, I'm already aware that I'm one in a million. ;).
All of this was over a year ago, so you can forego the pity party. As with any relationship, I learned a few things. I learned that there is a rare breed of guy that still courts a woman when he's interested. And there's also a rare breed of guy that cooks. Sadly, dating Astro only raised the bar of things I'll look for in a man. But, it also taught me the art of putting my foot down. Sometimes girls, and by sometimes I mean always, there's just no reason to settle.
Read this. Trust me, you'll love it.
I am certain many have seen this already. But it's so hilarious it's worth re-posting. I kind of wish my blogs were as funny as this chick. Also? For the record...I would totally do something like this...
http://thebloggess.com/2011/06/and-thats-why-you-should-learn-to-pick-your-battles/
http://thebloggess.com/2011/06/and-thats-why-you-should-learn-to-pick-your-battles/
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Emotions at the gym
Working out can be an emotional experience. On Saturday, in an effort to pre-empt upcoming weekend caloric sins, I headed to the gym. I woke up at the crack of dawn (aka 8am) to head to a cardio kickboxing class. (Cardio kickboxing is the class' government name. But Cardio kick-your-ass-twice is the street name). There was a substitute teacher when I got there, and I noticed it was a a teacher that just works my last nerve. Everytime she teaches a class, she spends the first 5-8 minutes talking. She's got somewhat of a high voice, and does all this fake humble ish. Like, "you know when there's a sub, you have to have an open mind." PFFT. Shut up. Anyway, after chattering about goodness knows what, she asked the class if we wanted her to go over the proper form for the kicks and punches. One rather type-A mother who was desperately trying to fit in her workout before returning to a life of playdates and bouncy castles (you know, I imagine), said with a healthy amount of snark "no, just start class." Now, while I agreed with mommy dearest in principle, I thought it was ill-advised for her to make a comment to a cardio teacher. Doesn't she know how it works? If you imply that the teacher isn't working you hard enough, that teacher uses your implication as license to attempt homicide by cardio. And, I had already been a victim of that particular crime earlier this week.
Anyway, true to form, Kelly the kickboxer started class, and proceeded to vicitimize us immediately. Even the warm-up was mind-boggling. She counted every thing on the half count, and a lot of jumping was involved. I didn't really mind that, though. You know what my real problem is with this chick? She was wearing at least 2 if not 3 bras. Her rack was ginormous, and required a lot of suspension and balance in her hardware. She was otherwise extremely toned -- she could've been a wrestler in another life. Suffice it to say that you would not want to meet her in a dark alley when she was pre-menstrual. Yeah, I said it. During the workout, as my muscles slowly began to fill with lactic acid, I started to wonder if my mounting rage was because she had the biggest chest I've ever seen on a fitness instructor, or because I felt like I was cheated out of 10 minutes of class, or if I was just bitter because my skin itched and my lungs were on the verge of explosion. Anyway, at the end of the day, it was very mentally exhausting.
As though my world isn't bizarre enough; I am continuing along my journey through past relationships. As I mentioned before, the Titan really never goes away. We still talk a lot, and we sometimes workout at the same gym. For the most part, our relationship doesn't usually extend beyond weekday chats. But today, as I was completing a day of errands and couponing, I decided I was craving deep dish pizza. Having been well-trained by WW, I knew that I would have to do something to earn it. Fortunately, at the moment I was having the craving, I was also driving past my gym. Which made me think; if there is anyone that I can count on to fulfill a pizza fantasy after working out, it's the Titan. He is a complete gym rat, but also a pizza fanatic. So, I proceeded to call him and tell him that he should come by the gym, and then split a pizza with me. Given his aversion to impulse, I figured he'd say no. But, surprise surprise, he was down! With one caveat, we had to walk to the gym.
It wasn't the distance of the walk, it's maybe 4 blocks, (albeit uphill), but not far. But the thing about that walk, is that it involves walking under an overpass, which houses a place for Hipsters of Tomorrow to meet up. Tomorrow's hipsters are today's skaters. Managing to sag jeans that are 2 sizes too small, find a way to wear plaid and flannel no matter the temperature, and the ubiquitous knit hat is, well, ubiquitous. With all the brooding and teenage flirting going on, it's difficult to watch. That, AND, it's the official pigeon port o' potty of the northwest side. Seriously, I can't take it. But, I wanted my deep dish pizza...so walk we would. Naturally, the Titan picks one of the hottest days of the year to make this walk...and then he proceeds to complain that the a/c is too cold once we reach the gym. *Note: never NEVER walk in 90 degree weather with a man from Memphis.
While we were at the gym, (and he had the audacity to lift hundreds of pounds right in front of me. Tease), I started to notice something. That boy knew a lot of the other gym rats that were there today, including the girl who apparently got her gym locations mixed up. Whereas I was wearing the first pair of workout capris and bright yellow Nike dri fit, with a faded bandana, this chick had on an outfit straight outta Hoochie's Workout Wear. While standing on a bosu (flat-side down -- punk), she did cute little squats in front of a mirrored corner. She was wearing black bootcut stretch pants, with lime green racing stripes which went up the leg and crossed (rather conveniently) at the hip and around the back. Drawing your eye to her nonexistent booty. To match -- and I do mean match -- she had on a lime green zebra striped tank top. Fitted, of course. But, the piece de resistance was...wait for it... an Ed Hardy hat. Who the hell wears an Ed Hardy hat to the gym? After finishing her bosu squats, she made a beeline for the Titan. The entire time I'd been up there, I'm pretty sure he was purposefully avoiding eye contact with me (or...he was watching his form in the mirror. Whatever). Out of the corner of my eye, I could see them talking, and I KNOW he was smiling and whatnot. And she was all "hi, aren't I cute and adorable?!!" *** And then, just before I'd worked myself in a tizzy, he brought her over to meet me. What the devil?! But I have been lifting! And I forgot my gloves, so I look like a total amateur!! and I'm sweaty!! Dammit!
Not surprisingly, she had a little bit of attitude. But meh. Whatever. I didn't tell her he and I used to date -- that's on him to tell her if that's the type of relationship they got. The fun part for me? Knowing that I was leaving with him, and all she could do was huff. HA. Ok, not really. Truth be told, she did give me a little bit of a cold shoulder, but I didn't give her any hint that he and I came together or were planning to leave together. I didn't give any hint that I knew him any better than she did, because really? I'm not one to fight over a guy. He's either mine, or he's not. And when it comes to an ex? He's not. So, meh. No matter the gender though, it's still a bit awkward to meet someone in a gym...when you're all sweaty and gross and whatnot.
That said, the workout and extra mile of walking was totally worth it for the pizza. Yummy! While we were eating, the Titan gave me some insight into dating in 2011 from the male perspective. I opined that men don't court women anymore. He said that lots of guys don't feel they should have to court a woman, since so many of them are dating 2 and 3 guys. Guys don't want to go all in, just to find out he's one of a few guys this chick is seeing. I proceeded to roll my eyes. Sounded like an excuse to put forth the least amount of effort necessary in order to get a piece -- but maybe that's just the cynic in me.
***Ok really? I don't actually know what they were saying or doing. This is totally what I heard in my head.
Anyway, true to form, Kelly the kickboxer started class, and proceeded to vicitimize us immediately. Even the warm-up was mind-boggling. She counted every thing on the half count, and a lot of jumping was involved. I didn't really mind that, though. You know what my real problem is with this chick? She was wearing at least 2 if not 3 bras. Her rack was ginormous, and required a lot of suspension and balance in her hardware. She was otherwise extremely toned -- she could've been a wrestler in another life. Suffice it to say that you would not want to meet her in a dark alley when she was pre-menstrual. Yeah, I said it. During the workout, as my muscles slowly began to fill with lactic acid, I started to wonder if my mounting rage was because she had the biggest chest I've ever seen on a fitness instructor, or because I felt like I was cheated out of 10 minutes of class, or if I was just bitter because my skin itched and my lungs were on the verge of explosion. Anyway, at the end of the day, it was very mentally exhausting.
As though my world isn't bizarre enough; I am continuing along my journey through past relationships. As I mentioned before, the Titan really never goes away. We still talk a lot, and we sometimes workout at the same gym. For the most part, our relationship doesn't usually extend beyond weekday chats. But today, as I was completing a day of errands and couponing, I decided I was craving deep dish pizza. Having been well-trained by WW, I knew that I would have to do something to earn it. Fortunately, at the moment I was having the craving, I was also driving past my gym. Which made me think; if there is anyone that I can count on to fulfill a pizza fantasy after working out, it's the Titan. He is a complete gym rat, but also a pizza fanatic. So, I proceeded to call him and tell him that he should come by the gym, and then split a pizza with me. Given his aversion to impulse, I figured he'd say no. But, surprise surprise, he was down! With one caveat, we had to walk to the gym.
It wasn't the distance of the walk, it's maybe 4 blocks, (albeit uphill), but not far. But the thing about that walk, is that it involves walking under an overpass, which houses a place for Hipsters of Tomorrow to meet up. Tomorrow's hipsters are today's skaters. Managing to sag jeans that are 2 sizes too small, find a way to wear plaid and flannel no matter the temperature, and the ubiquitous knit hat is, well, ubiquitous. With all the brooding and teenage flirting going on, it's difficult to watch. That, AND, it's the official pigeon port o' potty of the northwest side. Seriously, I can't take it. But, I wanted my deep dish pizza...so walk we would. Naturally, the Titan picks one of the hottest days of the year to make this walk...and then he proceeds to complain that the a/c is too cold once we reach the gym. *Note: never NEVER walk in 90 degree weather with a man from Memphis.
While we were at the gym, (and he had the audacity to lift hundreds of pounds right in front of me. Tease), I started to notice something. That boy knew a lot of the other gym rats that were there today, including the girl who apparently got her gym locations mixed up. Whereas I was wearing the first pair of workout capris and bright yellow Nike dri fit, with a faded bandana, this chick had on an outfit straight outta Hoochie's Workout Wear. While standing on a bosu (flat-side down -- punk), she did cute little squats in front of a mirrored corner. She was wearing black bootcut stretch pants, with lime green racing stripes which went up the leg and crossed (rather conveniently) at the hip and around the back. Drawing your eye to her nonexistent booty. To match -- and I do mean match -- she had on a lime green zebra striped tank top. Fitted, of course. But, the piece de resistance was...wait for it... an Ed Hardy hat. Who the hell wears an Ed Hardy hat to the gym? After finishing her bosu squats, she made a beeline for the Titan. The entire time I'd been up there, I'm pretty sure he was purposefully avoiding eye contact with me (or...he was watching his form in the mirror. Whatever). Out of the corner of my eye, I could see them talking, and I KNOW he was smiling and whatnot. And she was all "hi, aren't I cute and adorable?!!" *** And then, just before I'd worked myself in a tizzy, he brought her over to meet me. What the devil?! But I have been lifting! And I forgot my gloves, so I look like a total amateur!! and I'm sweaty!! Dammit!
Not surprisingly, she had a little bit of attitude. But meh. Whatever. I didn't tell her he and I used to date -- that's on him to tell her if that's the type of relationship they got. The fun part for me? Knowing that I was leaving with him, and all she could do was huff. HA. Ok, not really. Truth be told, she did give me a little bit of a cold shoulder, but I didn't give her any hint that he and I came together or were planning to leave together. I didn't give any hint that I knew him any better than she did, because really? I'm not one to fight over a guy. He's either mine, or he's not. And when it comes to an ex? He's not. So, meh. No matter the gender though, it's still a bit awkward to meet someone in a gym...when you're all sweaty and gross and whatnot.
That said, the workout and extra mile of walking was totally worth it for the pizza. Yummy! While we were eating, the Titan gave me some insight into dating in 2011 from the male perspective. I opined that men don't court women anymore. He said that lots of guys don't feel they should have to court a woman, since so many of them are dating 2 and 3 guys. Guys don't want to go all in, just to find out he's one of a few guys this chick is seeing. I proceeded to roll my eyes. Sounded like an excuse to put forth the least amount of effort necessary in order to get a piece -- but maybe that's just the cynic in me.
***Ok really? I don't actually know what they were saying or doing. This is totally what I heard in my head.
Thursday, July 07, 2011
The importance of dryer sheets (or, I have a thong in my purse!)
I admit it. There have been times when I’ve been known to set the women’s movement back a few years. Hitting up the bars with Kaia, in hopes of using my feminine wiles to get past the door and (more than a couple) free cocktails. Purposefully wearing a skirt suit to court when I knew the hiring partner (that thought I was cute) would be there. (That one wasn’t entirely my fault, if MMM had never told me that the partner thought I was cute, I never would have done it. No, really. I wouldn’t have). There have even been times where I accidentally gave an inappropriate view of my boobs (and, let’s be real, my lime green bra) to a deponent and opposing counsel or two. That one was completely subconscious though. I mean, I was just trying to stay awake by shifting positions – is it my fault that one such position involved leaning forward, as though paying attention?! Ahem. My point here, is that as a woman, I haven’t always held up the feminist banner. Sometimes, I’ve just been out and about, throwing feminine wiles, cleavage, and leg around. But today, I think I crossed all bounds of (in)decency for the workplace.
My office, like many highrises in any metropolitan area, is filled with computers, servers, printers, faxes, and other electronic devices. It’s fantastic for saving paper and all that. Not so great for maintaining a temperature anywhere above frigid. No matter the time of year, you will find a space heater and a sweater in my office. The thermostat residing on my back wall is either broken, just for show, or some sadistic contractor’s way of torturing office inhabitants. Anyway, suffice it to say that it’s effen cold in my office. All. The. Time.
Because my sweaters get worn a lot throughout the year, there always comes a time when I finally remember to take it home to wash it. You’ve got to wash the stench of greedy (and desperate) executives off your clothes every once in a while, right? After one such cleaning, today, I brought my sweater back to its royal spot of draping over the back of my chair. Lately, I’ve been suffering from pre-menopausal hot flashes, so I didn’t need to put the sweater on right away. But eventually, as with any other day, I found myself slowly draining of body heat. Before turning into a fudgsicle, I politely lifted my sweater out of my bag, and wrapped myself in it. I then left my office to make a boiling hot cup of cream and sugar with coffee.
Imagine my dismay when I returned to my office to find a crumpled Kleenex sitting just behind my chair. I mean, don’t you just hate it when you forget to clean out your pockets before doing laundry? Wait a minute…this sweater doesn’t have any pockets. And that Kleenex is not one which survived an entire drying cycle. And, since when do Kleenex have lace…OHMY..!!!!! Nobody look! Everybody avert your eyes! No one needs to know that I do, in fact, own a pair of cotton lace thongs. Oh good grief. I wonder how many people walked past and noticed…*shudder*. Let’s just hope they all thought it was Kleenex, like I did. And THAT, my friends, is why you need dryer sheets when doing laundry.
My office, like many highrises in any metropolitan area, is filled with computers, servers, printers, faxes, and other electronic devices. It’s fantastic for saving paper and all that. Not so great for maintaining a temperature anywhere above frigid. No matter the time of year, you will find a space heater and a sweater in my office. The thermostat residing on my back wall is either broken, just for show, or some sadistic contractor’s way of torturing office inhabitants. Anyway, suffice it to say that it’s effen cold in my office. All. The. Time.
Because my sweaters get worn a lot throughout the year, there always comes a time when I finally remember to take it home to wash it. You’ve got to wash the stench of greedy (and desperate) executives off your clothes every once in a while, right? After one such cleaning, today, I brought my sweater back to its royal spot of draping over the back of my chair. Lately, I’ve been suffering from pre-menopausal hot flashes, so I didn’t need to put the sweater on right away. But eventually, as with any other day, I found myself slowly draining of body heat. Before turning into a fudgsicle, I politely lifted my sweater out of my bag, and wrapped myself in it. I then left my office to make a boiling hot cup of cream and sugar with coffee.
Imagine my dismay when I returned to my office to find a crumpled Kleenex sitting just behind my chair. I mean, don’t you just hate it when you forget to clean out your pockets before doing laundry? Wait a minute…this sweater doesn’t have any pockets. And that Kleenex is not one which survived an entire drying cycle. And, since when do Kleenex have lace…OHMY..!!!!! Nobody look! Everybody avert your eyes! No one needs to know that I do, in fact, own a pair of cotton lace thongs. Oh good grief. I wonder how many people walked past and noticed…*shudder*. Let’s just hope they all thought it was Kleenex, like I did. And THAT, my friends, is why you need dryer sheets when doing laundry.
Wednesday, July 06, 2011
Men who text...
Only want sex. According to Franklin & Bash, anyway. So, my question is, are they right?
Technology has thrown the rules and etiquette of communication out of the window. Whereas before, you could count on the 3-day rule as an overall standard of calls (even on college campuses!), the only rule of modern day communication is that there is no rule.
Back in the day, (I'm told), a man would wait at least 3 days before contacting a woman he was interested in. The reason for the wait would range from not wishing to appear desperate -- to making a woman sweat so she would know he was hot stuff. (That last one caused single women everywhere to collectively roll their eyes to the heavens. Fellas? We? Are not impressed). Fast forward to the new millenium, the land of Luddites and iPhones, BBM and IM; Match.com and eharmony, and goodness only knows when you'll hear back and what the timing of that contact will mean.
Let's start with the Luddites, shall we? What does it mean to you if a guy doesn't have a mobile? (I'm only asking the ladies, because my understanding is that when it comes to women, men only care about one thing...and it ain't her method of communication). How important is it to you that a man has a mobile? My guess is that it is important that he has a mobile phone, but it's more important that he knows how to use it. A woman wants to know that you're on her mind, and the best way to do that is to text or call her.
When it comes to talking, however, it is important that you actually hear a ringing sound when using the phone every once in a while. If all you're doing is texting, he isn't really trying to get to know you. My guess is, he's using the quickest, laziest method to talk to you. Which tells me that he has little or no desire to put forth any kind of effort to date you. That doesn't mean he isn't interested in taking you out. But, my guess is "out" may include paper napkins or big screen tvs. And, the ultimate goal of going out is a speedy invitation to get "in." Sometimes, that is exactly what a girl wants. (Hey, this is a safe space. No judgment -- tramp ;}). Let's get real...some guys are just for fun (read: a pretty handbag, as previously explained...). And that's ok. What's not ok is trying to turn that guy into a real relationship. Try to remember that! Any real man worth dating, is willing to face a dial tone to get to you. I mean seriously, if a guy isn't willing to risk a few awkward silences, what else is he unwilling to do?
Technology has thrown the rules and etiquette of communication out of the window. Whereas before, you could count on the 3-day rule as an overall standard of calls (even on college campuses!), the only rule of modern day communication is that there is no rule.
Back in the day, (I'm told), a man would wait at least 3 days before contacting a woman he was interested in. The reason for the wait would range from not wishing to appear desperate -- to making a woman sweat so she would know he was hot stuff. (That last one caused single women everywhere to collectively roll their eyes to the heavens. Fellas? We? Are not impressed). Fast forward to the new millenium, the land of Luddites and iPhones, BBM and IM; Match.com and eharmony, and goodness only knows when you'll hear back and what the timing of that contact will mean.
Let's start with the Luddites, shall we? What does it mean to you if a guy doesn't have a mobile? (I'm only asking the ladies, because my understanding is that when it comes to women, men only care about one thing...and it ain't her method of communication). How important is it to you that a man has a mobile? My guess is that it is important that he has a mobile phone, but it's more important that he knows how to use it. A woman wants to know that you're on her mind, and the best way to do that is to text or call her.
When it comes to talking, however, it is important that you actually hear a ringing sound when using the phone every once in a while. If all you're doing is texting, he isn't really trying to get to know you. My guess is, he's using the quickest, laziest method to talk to you. Which tells me that he has little or no desire to put forth any kind of effort to date you. That doesn't mean he isn't interested in taking you out. But, my guess is "out" may include paper napkins or big screen tvs. And, the ultimate goal of going out is a speedy invitation to get "in." Sometimes, that is exactly what a girl wants. (Hey, this is a safe space. No judgment -- tramp ;}). Let's get real...some guys are just for fun (read: a pretty handbag, as previously explained...). And that's ok. What's not ok is trying to turn that guy into a real relationship. Try to remember that! Any real man worth dating, is willing to face a dial tone to get to you. I mean seriously, if a guy isn't willing to risk a few awkward silences, what else is he unwilling to do?
Tuesday, July 05, 2011
Watch that workout
Right now, I'm sitting on my couch, enjoying a delightfully fattening cinnamon roll. It is roughly the size of my fist...at least, it was before I started. Every bite calls images of steps on the treadmill, climbing the endless escalator stair climber, and facing the spin instructor's awful hillclimbs. And today? I earned my cinnamon roll, and every caloric delight that comes with it.
After taking an unauthorized 5 days off, I made a rather reluctant return to the gym. In order to make sure I didn't punk out on my workout, I decided to jump on a stationary bike and take a spin class. For the uninitiated, "spinning" is the ancient art of riding on a hard banana seat while pedaling furiously and going nowhere. As you pedal on, you slowly start to lose feeling in your nether regions...a concept that would be slightly disturbing if it didn't hurt to maintain feeling in that area more. Nothing says dedication like pelvic bruising! Anyway, in the case of this class, your ride is with the background of a mix of Madonna, Gaga, and techno-remixes that would put any gay disco DJ to shame.
Anyway, after I finish my cinnamon roll, I'm going to file a complaint with the D.A.'s office. I was a victim of attempted cardiovascular manslaughter. Frankly, the spin instructor made a valiant attempt to kill attendees by workout. After enduring 60 minutes of screaming quads and fiery calves, we all found ourselves crawling out of the small room, with nothing but our pinky toes and elbows to drag our slowly decreasing body weight back to the locker room.
The true redeeming quality of the class is that it's the only place in the gym where the gender roles are reversed. In this gym, as with most, at least one entire wall of the group exercise room is glass and facing the free weight section of the gym. During any number of classes where women are sure to be shaking their booties, doing downward dog, or various stretching exercises, you'll find men who are "between sets" ogling the ladies. The women, to their credit, pretend not to notice -- all the while proving to themselves that the hardwork is worth it thanks to the received attention. In the spin room, however, the roles are absolutely reversed. Usually, the class is filled mostly with women. And, just as with the other group exercise rooms, 1 and a half walls are full on windows. And, just as before, the windows look out onto the free weight area. Unlike with the room which holds Zumba, yoga, and the like, the spin room holds only spin classes. Apparently, meatheads do not find women hunched over stationary bikes sexy, therefore, they tend not to gather at the window. Instead of watching, the muscle men get back to the business of lifting. What does that mean for me and other women taking classes? That means we get to take our minds off of the incredible cardio exertion by watching the boys doing sexy things like pull-ups, hovering push-ups with hanging chains, and various bi and tri curls. I'm not ashamed to say that this evening found me and my bike neighbor unabashedly gawking at a man who must have done 3 sets of all manners of abs, biceps, triceps, and pecs. He certainly helped me get through my workout :).
To spite all the hardwork I put in on that bike (against my will), I finished off the last of my cheat food from this weekend. While TOTALLY worth it, I can only hope that there will be some meatheads working out this week and over the next few; because I will need as much incentive (distraction?) as I can get to work off this softball sized bit of delicious. Hello? Male fitness models? I'll be happy to watch you and to check your form. ;)
After taking an unauthorized 5 days off, I made a rather reluctant return to the gym. In order to make sure I didn't punk out on my workout, I decided to jump on a stationary bike and take a spin class. For the uninitiated, "spinning" is the ancient art of riding on a hard banana seat while pedaling furiously and going nowhere. As you pedal on, you slowly start to lose feeling in your nether regions...a concept that would be slightly disturbing if it didn't hurt to maintain feeling in that area more. Nothing says dedication like pelvic bruising! Anyway, in the case of this class, your ride is with the background of a mix of Madonna, Gaga, and techno-remixes that would put any gay disco DJ to shame.
Anyway, after I finish my cinnamon roll, I'm going to file a complaint with the D.A.'s office. I was a victim of attempted cardiovascular manslaughter. Frankly, the spin instructor made a valiant attempt to kill attendees by workout. After enduring 60 minutes of screaming quads and fiery calves, we all found ourselves crawling out of the small room, with nothing but our pinky toes and elbows to drag our slowly decreasing body weight back to the locker room.
The true redeeming quality of the class is that it's the only place in the gym where the gender roles are reversed. In this gym, as with most, at least one entire wall of the group exercise room is glass and facing the free weight section of the gym. During any number of classes where women are sure to be shaking their booties, doing downward dog, or various stretching exercises, you'll find men who are "between sets" ogling the ladies. The women, to their credit, pretend not to notice -- all the while proving to themselves that the hardwork is worth it thanks to the received attention. In the spin room, however, the roles are absolutely reversed. Usually, the class is filled mostly with women. And, just as with the other group exercise rooms, 1 and a half walls are full on windows. And, just as before, the windows look out onto the free weight area. Unlike with the room which holds Zumba, yoga, and the like, the spin room holds only spin classes. Apparently, meatheads do not find women hunched over stationary bikes sexy, therefore, they tend not to gather at the window. Instead of watching, the muscle men get back to the business of lifting. What does that mean for me and other women taking classes? That means we get to take our minds off of the incredible cardio exertion by watching the boys doing sexy things like pull-ups, hovering push-ups with hanging chains, and various bi and tri curls. I'm not ashamed to say that this evening found me and my bike neighbor unabashedly gawking at a man who must have done 3 sets of all manners of abs, biceps, triceps, and pecs. He certainly helped me get through my workout :).
To spite all the hardwork I put in on that bike (against my will), I finished off the last of my cheat food from this weekend. While TOTALLY worth it, I can only hope that there will be some meatheads working out this week and over the next few; because I will need as much incentive (distraction?) as I can get to work off this softball sized bit of delicious. Hello? Male fitness models? I'll be happy to watch you and to check your form. ;)
Monday, July 04, 2011
Ex-Factor
I used think the time to expect to hear from boyfriends of dating past was in the winter time. I always figured that once it got cold, men start wishing for a cuddle buddy. The best kind of cuddle buddy is one that you already know, right? Apparently, late June is the new winter time.
In the past 2 weeks or so, I've heard from every man I've ever ended a relationship with. Oftentimes, I'm not the one doing the ending. I'm usually the one getting left in the dust. Apparently, June 2011 is the year in which men of my distant and not-so-distant past begin thinking of all the "good times" we had.
It all started with the Ninja. The incredibly stupid guy who had an allergy to using a phone, following through with promises or plans, and a penchant for overall douchebaggery. Prior to two weeks ago, I hadn't spoken to him in 3 years. And then, I got a text message on Friday, asking me to go to a wedding on Saturday...back home. Because I didn't learn my lesson when we dated in 2002, I assumed that the reason he was asking was because he was desperate. That it was going to be a wedding and his ex would be there; or his family was pressuring him and he needed a decoy -- you know. Weddings can bring a lot of pressure if you don't have a ready-made date to go; at least for women. I don't think it's as serious for men, what, with their ability to hit on bridesmaids and single girls that couldn't find a date. In fact, last I heard, weddings were basically shooting vulnerable fish in a metaphorical barrel for single guys. But, there are exceptions (like those I listed). So, being the good Samaritan that I am, I agreed to go. (That, and he agreed to pay for my gas and I was totally in need of a fill up).
I expected that he would get on my nerves a little, but I had a tiny, bite-sized hope that he'd changed. NOT. He made all kinds of extra-deep comments that were designed to wow me with his sensitivity. Did you know, that I've always been there for him? Or that he didn't want to lose me again? How about that he loves that I asked his opinion even though I wasn't going to take his advice? He had a bad case of "one that got away"-isms. Unfortunately, he completely forgot about the fact that we only dated for 3 months -- namely because we didn't get along. Of those 3 months, we spent 85 days fighting. Argh. I'll spare you the details of how he picked a fight with me 5 days after the wedding. But suffice it to say that I suspect we'll go another 3 years before I hear from him again. Suffice it also to say that I didn't get my gas money.
Maybe a week later, I hear from the guy I broke up with last year. Also asking me to go with him to a wedding. He, at least, I'd heard from about a month ago. It was sporadic and just an exchange of text messages; but still it was contact. For the same reason I agreed to go with the Ninja, I went with Astro. It was a completely different experience. Astro spent most of his time convincing me that there were certain things that had changed about him, and that I should remember all of the great things about him. For example, he reminded me about how he once brought me a rose to my train stop to surprise me first thing in the morning. And that he used to cook for me. He also mentioned how he had eased back on the substance abuse (which shall remain nameless). The most shocking thing is that when I was being introduced to one of his friend's mom, she asked how we knew each other...and he says "we used to date. But I miss her, so maybe we'll start dating again." Zweerrrrrrrrr. Rewind. Say that again. Did he just say that we were going to start dating again? Did I miss a memo? The friend turned to me and says "my mom just got more information from him than you have all night. Awesome." Actually? Not awesome! That is something I'd rather get a memo about before other people, you know? I mean seriously! What's going on!?!?
Finally, I heard from the last guy. The young blood from the southside. Now, he was just kicked off the island maybe a month ago. So it's not all that unnatural that he'd pop up. It's just so funny that he made contact in the same time frame as all the other guys.
Now, the Titan never really goes away, as we all know. So I won't count his phone calls in the list of exes who called popped up. But, get this. I was telling him about how 2 guys I dated had asked me to go to a wedding -- and that I was starting to get weirded out. Then, he says "oh, I might be next. I have a wedding to go to, too." I'm thinking he's totally kidding. Nope! He's headed down to Rio for a bachelor party, and that's the wedding for which he'll need a date. Before I got too creeped out, he explained to me that the wedding won't be until next year. So I won't count it. But still! When did I become everybody's backup date?!!?
Oh well...I guess there are worse problems to have, right? Think about it -- where there's a wedding, there is cake. And the only time I ever said no to free cake was when I didn't understand the question. ;)
In the past 2 weeks or so, I've heard from every man I've ever ended a relationship with. Oftentimes, I'm not the one doing the ending. I'm usually the one getting left in the dust. Apparently, June 2011 is the year in which men of my distant and not-so-distant past begin thinking of all the "good times" we had.
It all started with the Ninja. The incredibly stupid guy who had an allergy to using a phone, following through with promises or plans, and a penchant for overall douchebaggery. Prior to two weeks ago, I hadn't spoken to him in 3 years. And then, I got a text message on Friday, asking me to go to a wedding on Saturday...back home. Because I didn't learn my lesson when we dated in 2002, I assumed that the reason he was asking was because he was desperate. That it was going to be a wedding and his ex would be there; or his family was pressuring him and he needed a decoy -- you know. Weddings can bring a lot of pressure if you don't have a ready-made date to go; at least for women. I don't think it's as serious for men, what, with their ability to hit on bridesmaids and single girls that couldn't find a date. In fact, last I heard, weddings were basically shooting vulnerable fish in a metaphorical barrel for single guys. But, there are exceptions (like those I listed). So, being the good Samaritan that I am, I agreed to go. (That, and he agreed to pay for my gas and I was totally in need of a fill up).
I expected that he would get on my nerves a little, but I had a tiny, bite-sized hope that he'd changed. NOT. He made all kinds of extra-deep comments that were designed to wow me with his sensitivity. Did you know, that I've always been there for him? Or that he didn't want to lose me again? How about that he loves that I asked his opinion even though I wasn't going to take his advice? He had a bad case of "one that got away"-isms. Unfortunately, he completely forgot about the fact that we only dated for 3 months -- namely because we didn't get along. Of those 3 months, we spent 85 days fighting. Argh. I'll spare you the details of how he picked a fight with me 5 days after the wedding. But suffice it to say that I suspect we'll go another 3 years before I hear from him again. Suffice it also to say that I didn't get my gas money.
Maybe a week later, I hear from the guy I broke up with last year. Also asking me to go with him to a wedding. He, at least, I'd heard from about a month ago. It was sporadic and just an exchange of text messages; but still it was contact. For the same reason I agreed to go with the Ninja, I went with Astro. It was a completely different experience. Astro spent most of his time convincing me that there were certain things that had changed about him, and that I should remember all of the great things about him. For example, he reminded me about how he once brought me a rose to my train stop to surprise me first thing in the morning. And that he used to cook for me. He also mentioned how he had eased back on the substance abuse (which shall remain nameless). The most shocking thing is that when I was being introduced to one of his friend's mom, she asked how we knew each other...and he says "we used to date. But I miss her, so maybe we'll start dating again." Zweerrrrrrrrr. Rewind. Say that again. Did he just say that we were going to start dating again? Did I miss a memo? The friend turned to me and says "my mom just got more information from him than you have all night. Awesome." Actually? Not awesome! That is something I'd rather get a memo about before other people, you know? I mean seriously! What's going on!?!?
Finally, I heard from the last guy. The young blood from the southside. Now, he was just kicked off the island maybe a month ago. So it's not all that unnatural that he'd pop up. It's just so funny that he made contact in the same time frame as all the other guys.
Now, the Titan never really goes away, as we all know. So I won't count his phone calls in the list of exes who called popped up. But, get this. I was telling him about how 2 guys I dated had asked me to go to a wedding -- and that I was starting to get weirded out. Then, he says "oh, I might be next. I have a wedding to go to, too." I'm thinking he's totally kidding. Nope! He's headed down to Rio for a bachelor party, and that's the wedding for which he'll need a date. Before I got too creeped out, he explained to me that the wedding won't be until next year. So I won't count it. But still! When did I become everybody's backup date?!!?
Oh well...I guess there are worse problems to have, right? Think about it -- where there's a wedding, there is cake. And the only time I ever said no to free cake was when I didn't understand the question. ;)
Holiday Shopping
Happy Independence Day! I have a very patriotic friend, who happens to be a naval officer. He is th epitome of patriotism. Today, he made the following comment (via text) to me:
"Today is my 2nd fave day of the year. A holiday to our own. the day we set forth a new nation that, for the first time ever or since, chartered a legacy of liberty that we're always striving and never quite achieving. And, I kinda like it that way."
I proceeded to congratulate him on his patriotism, but reminded him that pheebee is not so patriotic. It's not that I don't think America is great and awesome, it's just that *shrug*. I have a hard time getting all twitter-peated about it. I'll tell you what I CAN get excited about though -- SHOPPING!
I assume that no one is surprised by this particular bit of info. I love shopping! When people get all philosophical about "following your passion" and all that; one of the first thing that comes to mind for me is shopping. If I could make money doing it, I swear I'd drop all pretense of practicing law and take up professional retailing. But, to be a shopping addict, one must be smart about it. Until such time that I've married rich (and probably after I do), I will never, ever, ever pay full price. I mean seriously, who does that?
So when's the best time to find a deal? Like anything answered by a lawyer, the answer to that question is "it depends." Everything has a sale cycle -- if you're smart, you shop when things are at the low price point. This doesn't have to mean that you're constantly buying clothes out of season, or last year's electronic model. It does mean that you have to pay attention to commercials once in a while.
This particular holiday, the day we declared our independence from the British, is excellent for summer fashions, furniture, and almost anything related to picnics and barbecues. And, don't forget, most holidays which involve great weather and a day off are usually good for great prices at outlet malls. I suspect the factory store owners assume that people will need some sort of -- ahem, outlet -- from hanging around family. An excellent stress and boredom relief is shopping.
It is with this wealth of knowledge that I decided to spend some money I don't have on things I don't need. On the way back from visiting the parents, I stopped by the nearest outlet mall. And, guess what? Pheebee's intuition was correct. I hit up Banana Republic which had 50% off everything in the store. I also picked up a few mini lotions to keep my hands soft and smooth at Bath & Body Works (sales of up to 75% off). Now, since I'm allegedly on a shoppping hiatus in favor of re-decorating, I held off from stopping at other clothing stores, and instead headed to Home Goods. Where I saw some of the biggest mirrors EVER. They were well over 2 feet taller than me (I guess that's not some huge feat -- but still). I managed to pick up a new shower curtain for just a coupla bucks, and possibly some new bedding.
For similar sales, check out Memorial Day and possibly Labor Day. Although, Labor Day is tricky because it's a signal for the end of summer -- that holiday will lean more towards back to school. A great time to pick up office supplies, and fall preview fashions.
So, happy birthday America. Thanks for the great deals ;)
"Today is my 2nd fave day of the year. A holiday to our own. the day we set forth a new nation that, for the first time ever or since, chartered a legacy of liberty that we're always striving and never quite achieving. And, I kinda like it that way."
I proceeded to congratulate him on his patriotism, but reminded him that pheebee is not so patriotic. It's not that I don't think America is great and awesome, it's just that *shrug*. I have a hard time getting all twitter-peated about it. I'll tell you what I CAN get excited about though -- SHOPPING!
I assume that no one is surprised by this particular bit of info. I love shopping! When people get all philosophical about "following your passion" and all that; one of the first thing that comes to mind for me is shopping. If I could make money doing it, I swear I'd drop all pretense of practicing law and take up professional retailing. But, to be a shopping addict, one must be smart about it. Until such time that I've married rich (and probably after I do), I will never, ever, ever pay full price. I mean seriously, who does that?
So when's the best time to find a deal? Like anything answered by a lawyer, the answer to that question is "it depends." Everything has a sale cycle -- if you're smart, you shop when things are at the low price point. This doesn't have to mean that you're constantly buying clothes out of season, or last year's electronic model. It does mean that you have to pay attention to commercials once in a while.
This particular holiday, the day we declared our independence from the British, is excellent for summer fashions, furniture, and almost anything related to picnics and barbecues. And, don't forget, most holidays which involve great weather and a day off are usually good for great prices at outlet malls. I suspect the factory store owners assume that people will need some sort of -- ahem, outlet -- from hanging around family. An excellent stress and boredom relief is shopping.
It is with this wealth of knowledge that I decided to spend some money I don't have on things I don't need. On the way back from visiting the parents, I stopped by the nearest outlet mall. And, guess what? Pheebee's intuition was correct. I hit up Banana Republic which had 50% off everything in the store. I also picked up a few mini lotions to keep my hands soft and smooth at Bath & Body Works (sales of up to 75% off). Now, since I'm allegedly on a shoppping hiatus in favor of re-decorating, I held off from stopping at other clothing stores, and instead headed to Home Goods. Where I saw some of the biggest mirrors EVER. They were well over 2 feet taller than me (I guess that's not some huge feat -- but still). I managed to pick up a new shower curtain for just a coupla bucks, and possibly some new bedding.
For similar sales, check out Memorial Day and possibly Labor Day. Although, Labor Day is tricky because it's a signal for the end of summer -- that holiday will lean more towards back to school. A great time to pick up office supplies, and fall preview fashions.
So, happy birthday America. Thanks for the great deals ;)
Friday, July 01, 2011
Heavenly Hangover
Last night, I was sitting watching the Real Housewives of New York City, marveling over the sheer amount of arrogance, stupidity, and tackiness that can be packed into a 60 minute period. The proper way to watch RHofNYC is with a glass of wine or a cocktail. Apparently, I was not the only person to feel this way.
About 40 minutes into the program I heard loud cracking sounds. I looked out of my window to see ice cubes falling from heaven! It was as though the angels were making a Chicago cocktail – and they wanted it shaken, not stirred. I can’t say that I blame them – to truly get a good freeze on a cocktail, you really need to shake it. All stirring it does is melt the ice cubes and water down your strawberry-basil mojito. (RIP Martini Park). Anyway, I should have known something was up with the little cherubs started putting on a light show without any rain showers. Silver beams of light were cutting across the sky, in the pattern of a drunken woman’s walk after a night Vegas – as she stumbles her way back to a hotel room with only a shred of hope that the door she picks (#2?) is actually her room. Funny thing is, I’ve lived in this part of the country my entire life, and I’ve never seen hail this big. And I’ve certainly never seen it in July. I’m still trying to figure out how the little buggers managed to send ice cubes down while it was still in the 70s…
Well, after a night of angelic debauchery, the earth was certainly suffering a hangover. The streets were filled with all kinds of arboreal carnage. There was a carpet of leaves on the sidewalk – which, while romantic when in reference to the greenery of a pasture in a romance novel*, is not so idyllic in the middle of a city. On top of that, there were branches and sticks and all kinds of natural shenanigans on the ground. But, on the upside, the birds were still tweeting (in the bird-singing sense, not in the Anthony Wiener sense).
I wonder, are there several angels on a time out in heaven? Is there a legal drinking age in heaven?
*And, while I’m on the subject of carpets of leaves and grass and whatnot, who wants to walk on that? I mean seriously, if you’re in the middle of being romanced, shouldn’t you be wearing sexy sexy stilettos? If so, aren’t your heels sinking? Isn’t that, you know, the opposite of sexy? Ok. Just checking.
About 40 minutes into the program I heard loud cracking sounds. I looked out of my window to see ice cubes falling from heaven! It was as though the angels were making a Chicago cocktail – and they wanted it shaken, not stirred. I can’t say that I blame them – to truly get a good freeze on a cocktail, you really need to shake it. All stirring it does is melt the ice cubes and water down your strawberry-basil mojito. (RIP Martini Park). Anyway, I should have known something was up with the little cherubs started putting on a light show without any rain showers. Silver beams of light were cutting across the sky, in the pattern of a drunken woman’s walk after a night Vegas – as she stumbles her way back to a hotel room with only a shred of hope that the door she picks (#2?) is actually her room. Funny thing is, I’ve lived in this part of the country my entire life, and I’ve never seen hail this big. And I’ve certainly never seen it in July. I’m still trying to figure out how the little buggers managed to send ice cubes down while it was still in the 70s…
Well, after a night of angelic debauchery, the earth was certainly suffering a hangover. The streets were filled with all kinds of arboreal carnage. There was a carpet of leaves on the sidewalk – which, while romantic when in reference to the greenery of a pasture in a romance novel*, is not so idyllic in the middle of a city. On top of that, there were branches and sticks and all kinds of natural shenanigans on the ground. But, on the upside, the birds were still tweeting (in the bird-singing sense, not in the Anthony Wiener sense).
I wonder, are there several angels on a time out in heaven? Is there a legal drinking age in heaven?
*And, while I’m on the subject of carpets of leaves and grass and whatnot, who wants to walk on that? I mean seriously, if you’re in the middle of being romanced, shouldn’t you be wearing sexy sexy stilettos? If so, aren’t your heels sinking? Isn’t that, you know, the opposite of sexy? Ok. Just checking.
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