I touched down in San Diego with my parents yesterday and the first thing out of my mothers mouth was, "OH! We need to go to the store to buy some of that powder so we can, you know, poop!"
The bands back together! It's always good to know I can count on "regularity" being a part of my weekend. Right after "laughter" and "possible girth increase due to too much food." But I brought my Official Eating Pants, so all is well.
Have a great weekend, everyone!
Friday, August 28, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Someone needs to get engaged so that I don't perish from boredom in December.
Back down south I go to help my niece plan her wedding! Did you know that EVERYONE is getting married this year? Well, really only two couples. But it seems like EVERYONE since each week up through November has some sort of wedding related activity assigned to it and doesn’t everyone realize that I need my SLEEP?
The weddings are going to be gorgeous, sweet and emotional (read: OPEN BAR) the way good weddings are supposed to be. But I had forgotten since my own years ago how much work it takes to get the bride down the aisle. Either I was a particularly lazy wedding participant or just drank to forget. It might actually be a combination of the two as evidenced by the album. I’m sitting down a lot with a glass of wine in hand, so draw whatever conclusions you may.
Come my nieces wedding right before Thanksgiving, I know I’ll be tired and probably only have the energy to sob something incoherently into the wedding video. But the next day, once the last table is broken down, the candles put away and I locate whatever pair of shoes I’m sure to lose in the shrubbery, I know I’ll feel glum like you do after Christmas and wonder what it is that I have to look forward to. But in the meantime, it’s good to be surrounded by so many declarations of love.
The weddings are going to be gorgeous, sweet and emotional (read: OPEN BAR) the way good weddings are supposed to be. But I had forgotten since my own years ago how much work it takes to get the bride down the aisle. Either I was a particularly lazy wedding participant or just drank to forget. It might actually be a combination of the two as evidenced by the album. I’m sitting down a lot with a glass of wine in hand, so draw whatever conclusions you may.
Come my nieces wedding right before Thanksgiving, I know I’ll be tired and probably only have the energy to sob something incoherently into the wedding video. But the next day, once the last table is broken down, the candles put away and I locate whatever pair of shoes I’m sure to lose in the shrubbery, I know I’ll feel glum like you do after Christmas and wonder what it is that I have to look forward to. But in the meantime, it’s good to be surrounded by so many declarations of love.
Zumba!
I’ve had a membership at some sort of gym for, like, ten years. Twelve years, maybe. A long time. But for the past few years, I’ve had a rather spotty relationship with cardio. Given my profession – that of bossing people around until they are in shape – one would think that I would LOVE cardio. But with my health condition, I would start running or get on the elliptical or whatever and could usually take about ten minutes before I would start whining the Lord’s Prayer and wonder if going up a pant size was really such a bad compromise given my heart was about to explode. I would quietly get off whatever machine was causing this reaction and rub it enthusiastically with my middle finger until I felt better.
So I hadn’t darkened the door of any gym other than my workplace for a while. And then someone whispered the dulcet tone of “Zumba!” in my ear. I heard about it from a client – a person who sees me regularly but has a pathological aversion to cardio and hadn’t driven by her gym in half a decade. She takes an "all or nothing" approach to exercise - years of lying on the couch punctuated by brief spurts of rabid workouts that leave her unable to walk for weeks at a time.
But! She had heard of this thing called Zumba! which sounded fun and was at a local gym that also had a full service spa, all kinds of saunas, granite counter tops in the locker room, and... like, some other gym shit, I don't know. Mats or something. Wooed by the fancy interior in a weak moment, she decided she would try Zumba! but did not want to undergo this particular type of self-flagellation alone. So she called me! Her trusty trainer who is always saying, “BITCHES! If you want to fit into your skinny jeans for GODS SAKE do your cardio!” knowing all the while that I was full of shit since my own routine consisted of three minutes on the stair stepper followed by some heavy drooling and a collapsed lung.
"We're going to go," she told me over the phone. I heard her opening a bottle of wine in the background. "Because I don’t want to make a fool out of myself alone and you might actually look more retarded than I do while dancing."
"Ass," I said. What she didn’t know was that in taking my new medications, I had suddenly found myself full of energy and able to run without my heart exploding and leaking out of my eyes. Well-played, modern science!
We went on a Wednesday night. The instructor was a gorgeous man who looked Latin but was actually Vietnamese. Strange, I know. Gleaming women who were 98% perk and 2% insanely good hair surrounded him. They were unreal. These chicks could have karate chopped me in two using only their triceps with a little help from their hair. The instructor smiled at my client and me and she said, “Fuck. No one told me he was going to be hot. We should just go to the sauna.”
"Uh, no," I spat wetly. “If you dragged me here, away from The Rachel Zoe Project, we are going to do this.”
In we went. The room was packed. I stood next to a woman who reeked of coconut tanning oil and was the exact color of an armoire I had at home. Burnished, if you will. The music started and our instructor, the hot Vietnamese/Latin man started dancing. And HOLY HELL could he MOVE.
And, I found, so could I! I had no idea that my hips had that kind of range of motion completely independent from my upper body. Apparently I missed my calling as a salsa dancer as the instructor kept coming up to me and yelling to everyone over the music, “WATCH HER. SHE HAS A SPECTACULAR CENTER!” And he would kind of roll his r’s in that way that I cannot (even though most German words require it so I sort of end up spitting at people a lot when speaking that language). Regardless, I was elated! Yay! My center was spectacular! And so far, my lungs were staying inflated.
My client’s lungs? Well, not so much. She reported later that most of the class was a blur since the only oxygen getting to her brain was coming in through her ears. The hour was much of a red haze except when she would inadvertently smack her hand into someone’s face and turn to apologize, only to realize that she had run into the wall, unclear as to how she had traveled so completely across the room. She had started standing the class standing next to me, but by class’s end I had to make my way through the crowd to find her where she was bracing herself up against a Fichus tree, trying to find her dignity, which had fallen out some 45 minutes back during a rather complicated box-step.
The instructor came in for a meaningful high-five and rolled his r’s through some sentences about how great it was to have us at Zumba! and how he was so impressed that someone who had never taken dance classes had such hip control. This, I assume, was aimed at me since my friend had turned grey and was holding a heated and one-sided conversation with the Fichus that went something like, “FUCK CARDIO, FUCK CARDIO, FUCK CARDIO.” She then turned to me and said, “Do you think they have a bar here?” This was our cue to leave.
We were talking about this while I had her on the reformer the other day. It had been over two weeks since she had shared the meaningful high-five with the hot Zumba! instructor. She informed me in no uncertain terms that there was no way she was going to set foot inside of that building again despite their granite counters and saunas. She was afraid for her health. “Shit, I thought I was going to throw up half way through! I probably would have lost some weight THAT way, at least.” I reminded her that THAT kind of solution is called bulimia.
"So you’re never going back, even though this was your idea in the first place?" I continued, starting her in on some abdominal work.
"No. Unless they play The Real Housewives on the big TV’s and allow napping on the mats and I can make fun of you and your magic hips during class, I’m out. And just so you know, you’re an ass for holding out on me. I didn’t know you were all HEALED and could bounce around like that for an hour without exploding. You need to be hobbled.”
That's what she gets for bringing me with the sole intention of having me look like a bigger moron so her moron'ness would be hidden. The healing part of science rules. Suck on THAT.
So I hadn’t darkened the door of any gym other than my workplace for a while. And then someone whispered the dulcet tone of “Zumba!” in my ear. I heard about it from a client – a person who sees me regularly but has a pathological aversion to cardio and hadn’t driven by her gym in half a decade. She takes an "all or nothing" approach to exercise - years of lying on the couch punctuated by brief spurts of rabid workouts that leave her unable to walk for weeks at a time.
But! She had heard of this thing called Zumba! which sounded fun and was at a local gym that also had a full service spa, all kinds of saunas, granite counter tops in the locker room, and... like, some other gym shit, I don't know. Mats or something. Wooed by the fancy interior in a weak moment, she decided she would try Zumba! but did not want to undergo this particular type of self-flagellation alone. So she called me! Her trusty trainer who is always saying, “BITCHES! If you want to fit into your skinny jeans for GODS SAKE do your cardio!” knowing all the while that I was full of shit since my own routine consisted of three minutes on the stair stepper followed by some heavy drooling and a collapsed lung.
"We're going to go," she told me over the phone. I heard her opening a bottle of wine in the background. "Because I don’t want to make a fool out of myself alone and you might actually look more retarded than I do while dancing."
"Ass," I said. What she didn’t know was that in taking my new medications, I had suddenly found myself full of energy and able to run without my heart exploding and leaking out of my eyes. Well-played, modern science!
We went on a Wednesday night. The instructor was a gorgeous man who looked Latin but was actually Vietnamese. Strange, I know. Gleaming women who were 98% perk and 2% insanely good hair surrounded him. They were unreal. These chicks could have karate chopped me in two using only their triceps with a little help from their hair. The instructor smiled at my client and me and she said, “Fuck. No one told me he was going to be hot. We should just go to the sauna.”
"Uh, no," I spat wetly. “If you dragged me here, away from The Rachel Zoe Project, we are going to do this.”
In we went. The room was packed. I stood next to a woman who reeked of coconut tanning oil and was the exact color of an armoire I had at home. Burnished, if you will. The music started and our instructor, the hot Vietnamese/Latin man started dancing. And HOLY HELL could he MOVE.
And, I found, so could I! I had no idea that my hips had that kind of range of motion completely independent from my upper body. Apparently I missed my calling as a salsa dancer as the instructor kept coming up to me and yelling to everyone over the music, “WATCH HER. SHE HAS A SPECTACULAR CENTER!” And he would kind of roll his r’s in that way that I cannot (even though most German words require it so I sort of end up spitting at people a lot when speaking that language). Regardless, I was elated! Yay! My center was spectacular! And so far, my lungs were staying inflated.
My client’s lungs? Well, not so much. She reported later that most of the class was a blur since the only oxygen getting to her brain was coming in through her ears. The hour was much of a red haze except when she would inadvertently smack her hand into someone’s face and turn to apologize, only to realize that she had run into the wall, unclear as to how she had traveled so completely across the room. She had started standing the class standing next to me, but by class’s end I had to make my way through the crowd to find her where she was bracing herself up against a Fichus tree, trying to find her dignity, which had fallen out some 45 minutes back during a rather complicated box-step.
The instructor came in for a meaningful high-five and rolled his r’s through some sentences about how great it was to have us at Zumba! and how he was so impressed that someone who had never taken dance classes had such hip control. This, I assume, was aimed at me since my friend had turned grey and was holding a heated and one-sided conversation with the Fichus that went something like, “FUCK CARDIO, FUCK CARDIO, FUCK CARDIO.” She then turned to me and said, “Do you think they have a bar here?” This was our cue to leave.
We were talking about this while I had her on the reformer the other day. It had been over two weeks since she had shared the meaningful high-five with the hot Zumba! instructor. She informed me in no uncertain terms that there was no way she was going to set foot inside of that building again despite their granite counters and saunas. She was afraid for her health. “Shit, I thought I was going to throw up half way through! I probably would have lost some weight THAT way, at least.” I reminded her that THAT kind of solution is called bulimia.
"So you’re never going back, even though this was your idea in the first place?" I continued, starting her in on some abdominal work.
"No. Unless they play The Real Housewives on the big TV’s and allow napping on the mats and I can make fun of you and your magic hips during class, I’m out. And just so you know, you’re an ass for holding out on me. I didn’t know you were all HEALED and could bounce around like that for an hour without exploding. You need to be hobbled.”
That's what she gets for bringing me with the sole intention of having me look like a bigger moron so her moron'ness would be hidden. The healing part of science rules. Suck on THAT.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Seriously. PULL OVER.
One of my favorite things to do is to pull over and make way for a firetruck. I have ample opportunities to do so, given that our backyard shares a fence with a firehouse and they come flying down our street frequently. But there is something imminently satisfying about hearing the sirens behind you and moving over so that the trucks can go by, presumably on their way to save someone.
Perhaps it's because I will never be a doctor, or an ambassador for the UN or cure cancer. At the very least I can make way for those who run into scary situations to save others while the rest of us line up on the side walk and quietly pee our pants. So I'll happily pull to the side of the road when the need arises. Oh, and yell, "ASSHOLE!" at those who don't*. In the name of public service, you know.
*I may or may not have done that on the way home from work today.
Perhaps it's because I will never be a doctor, or an ambassador for the UN or cure cancer. At the very least I can make way for those who run into scary situations to save others while the rest of us line up on the side walk and quietly pee our pants. So I'll happily pull to the side of the road when the need arises. Oh, and yell, "ASSHOLE!" at those who don't*. In the name of public service, you know.
*I may or may not have done that on the way home from work today.
Monday, August 17, 2009
GREAT Sauvignon Blanc, by the way.
Mom: I’m so sorry about the wine.
Me: Why? It tastes fine to me.
Mom: Well, the label is a bit scandalous, you know.
Me: You mean the naked women? Psh. I don’t think that’s going to give anyone a boner over dinner.
Mom: JENNIFER. WE DO NOT SAY THAT WORD.
Me: Really? I do all of the time. You should try it.
Mom: How am I related to you? I actually tried to tie a ribbon around them so we wouldn’t have to look at their bosoms.
Me: And what happened?
Mom: I don’t know. It wouldn’t stay on.
Me: Just look at it as an anatomy lesson of sorts.
Mom: I don’t really want to look at anyone’s anatomy over my pork chops.
Me: Well, we’ll put the bottle in front of one of the men, then.
Mom: NO! It will make them think lewd thoughts!
Me: I’m not sure the women on the label are representative of anyone’s particular “type". Though most men DO like a woman with a tush, and they seem to abound here.
I felt confident no one was going to start fornicating over the main course because of some rubenesque women frolicking along a label. Perhaps it was all of the wine I had already had. Hard to say. Regardless, we brought the bottle to the table, where immediately one of the men went, “BOOBIES!” to which my dad replied, “WHERE?” And then, to my mother’s mortification, we entered into a ten-minute conversation about everything that she tries to avoid speaking about in her life, namely sex or the mention of hoo-has (which is polite code for VAGINA). The men were enthusiastic. My mother wept into her shirtsleeves. I pulled my shirt up over my head and waved my arms around to distract everyone, which didn’t work. There were naked ladies on the table, after all.
And yes, this is a normal family gathering at my house. Next time, there will be film.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Situation
So, remember how I once wrote about collecting a stool sample when I was in the midst of getting diagnosed with some health stuff? (Update: since then, I have been unable to enjoy fries.) That whole post came back to me in frightening detail this weekend.
Because we went camping.
Which, you see, only brings this to mind because high on the list of Things I Will Not Do is poop in the woods. Also on that list is Work With Only Women, Wear Capris and Eat at a Restaurant That Has Pictures of Their Food on the Menu. Take note, please. The list is laminated, ergo, non-negotiable.
Camping means several things. It means seeing things that no one else gets to, not bathing, waking up with the sun and having breakfast while looking out over 12k peaks, and dodgy bathroom conditions. Generally, I'd rather go behind a bush given the state of most national park toilets, the conditions of which are better left undisclosed. And this is fine. Pee'ing poses few problems, the largest one being the inadvertent exposure of your backside to complete strangers. But at that point, you most likely haven't bathed for a day or two and so mooning someone who wouldn't recognize you in polite society doesn't really leave an emotional scar.
However, if you have more pressing business to attend to, the kind that you would prefer a stall OR four walls and an advanced kind of ventilation system for, then nature is a cruel bitch. Not only will you not EVER find sufficient cover, but one must also come prepared with a trowel and toilet paper to bury not only whatever you leave behind but a good portion of your dignity as well. As I discovered from my fry tray incident, there is never a good time to deal with ones own poop. It just serves as a very unpleasant and pungent reminder that no matter what state of life you're in, you can't get away from your own shit.
But back to camping, my rear has always cooperated with me and stopped all evacuation type business when we go away on these weekends where I may not be able to find a toilet. It knows that I would rather deal with bloat and minor discomfort. However, with my new medications and eating habits, I've been introduced to a new routine of startling regularity. I am the envy of all men. So while I was hoping for the familiar shut-down upon our arrival at Yosemite this weekend, my innards had different plans.
Day one was fine, as we were conveniently positioned near bathroom stalls whenever the need arose, but on day two, we found ourselves deep in the woods at a new climbing area which, sadly, did not include facilities. Why the park services did not anticipate my needs and haul a port-o-let miles into the back country is beyond me. I should write my senator about that.
I didn't think this would be a problem, given I had taken care of things hours before. Either my body was on a roll or I had consumed too much fiber that morning but familiar rumblings started some hours into the afternoon when we were no where near either a. leaving or b. spontaneously coming across a bathroom with sufficient amenities. So I had stern speaks with my intestines who were just going to have to PIPE DOWN since I was not going to hike off, dig a hole and make a deposit. It's on the LAMINATED LIST OF THINGS THAT SHALL NOT HAPPEN. Everything calmed down for a while and the afternoon went on with only an occasional protest from down below.
Everyone was nearly done climbing for the day when my stomach kicked into high gear, apparently having had enough of waiting. I realized that I was not going to be able to put off the inevitable for much longer and prayed to the Baby Jesus that people would be quick to pack up as we had a half hour march back to the car and excessive movement was only prompting my body to take care of things. Marc wondered why I sprinted down the hill, leaving our group behind as I made my way quickly to the car. I didn't want to announce the reason, hoping that he would just gather my situation via osmosis since he's aware of my newly found bathroom prowess.
We made it to the car and I said goodbye to our friends hastily, my mind on other things. I turned to Marc and said, "We need to go back to The Store NOW." The Store being a place that has a small restaurant, a gear shop and BATHROOMS and was also several miles in the opposite direction of where were headed. Marc, still not fathoming the gravity of the situation looked at me and said, "But wouldn't you rather get a head start and make our way out of the park?" I stifled the urge to kick him in the shins and whisper shouted, "IT'S NOT A REQUEST WE NEED TO GO NOW," at which, I think, he got the point. He even kindly sped through the Meadows which is not recommended given the very enthusiastic police who will pull you over at the slightest provocation.
With deliverance close at hand, I unbuttoned my pants as I ran across the parking lot to the ladies room, body-checking a small child who I thought might get there ahead of me. I was in no mood to wait. I met Marc back at the car, the relief registering on my face in a contented smile. "Seriously?" he said, "You couldn't just go in the woods back at the climbing area?" "You know my rule," I replied, settling in happily and looking for some celebratory music on the iPod.
He just shook his head and started the drive back home wondering, I'm sure, how I consider myself any kind of outdoors-woman without being able to take care of this most simple of tasks. But you see, I HAVE done it once before and almost didn't live through the episode, the horror being too much to ever recall or document...and then there was the incident of the fry tray. So really, it's not for lack of experience that I don't want to have to deal with my own shit in such an intimate way. You have to draw the line somewhere.
Because we went camping.
Which, you see, only brings this to mind because high on the list of Things I Will Not Do is poop in the woods. Also on that list is Work With Only Women, Wear Capris and Eat at a Restaurant That Has Pictures of Their Food on the Menu. Take note, please. The list is laminated, ergo, non-negotiable.
Camping means several things. It means seeing things that no one else gets to, not bathing, waking up with the sun and having breakfast while looking out over 12k peaks, and dodgy bathroom conditions. Generally, I'd rather go behind a bush given the state of most national park toilets, the conditions of which are better left undisclosed. And this is fine. Pee'ing poses few problems, the largest one being the inadvertent exposure of your backside to complete strangers. But at that point, you most likely haven't bathed for a day or two and so mooning someone who wouldn't recognize you in polite society doesn't really leave an emotional scar.
However, if you have more pressing business to attend to, the kind that you would prefer a stall OR four walls and an advanced kind of ventilation system for, then nature is a cruel bitch. Not only will you not EVER find sufficient cover, but one must also come prepared with a trowel and toilet paper to bury not only whatever you leave behind but a good portion of your dignity as well. As I discovered from my fry tray incident, there is never a good time to deal with ones own poop. It just serves as a very unpleasant and pungent reminder that no matter what state of life you're in, you can't get away from your own shit.
But back to camping, my rear has always cooperated with me and stopped all evacuation type business when we go away on these weekends where I may not be able to find a toilet. It knows that I would rather deal with bloat and minor discomfort. However, with my new medications and eating habits, I've been introduced to a new routine of startling regularity. I am the envy of all men. So while I was hoping for the familiar shut-down upon our arrival at Yosemite this weekend, my innards had different plans.
Day one was fine, as we were conveniently positioned near bathroom stalls whenever the need arose, but on day two, we found ourselves deep in the woods at a new climbing area which, sadly, did not include facilities. Why the park services did not anticipate my needs and haul a port-o-let miles into the back country is beyond me. I should write my senator about that.
I didn't think this would be a problem, given I had taken care of things hours before. Either my body was on a roll or I had consumed too much fiber that morning but familiar rumblings started some hours into the afternoon when we were no where near either a. leaving or b. spontaneously coming across a bathroom with sufficient amenities. So I had stern speaks with my intestines who were just going to have to PIPE DOWN since I was not going to hike off, dig a hole and make a deposit. It's on the LAMINATED LIST OF THINGS THAT SHALL NOT HAPPEN. Everything calmed down for a while and the afternoon went on with only an occasional protest from down below.
Everyone was nearly done climbing for the day when my stomach kicked into high gear, apparently having had enough of waiting. I realized that I was not going to be able to put off the inevitable for much longer and prayed to the Baby Jesus that people would be quick to pack up as we had a half hour march back to the car and excessive movement was only prompting my body to take care of things. Marc wondered why I sprinted down the hill, leaving our group behind as I made my way quickly to the car. I didn't want to announce the reason, hoping that he would just gather my situation via osmosis since he's aware of my newly found bathroom prowess.
We made it to the car and I said goodbye to our friends hastily, my mind on other things. I turned to Marc and said, "We need to go back to The Store NOW." The Store being a place that has a small restaurant, a gear shop and BATHROOMS and was also several miles in the opposite direction of where were headed. Marc, still not fathoming the gravity of the situation looked at me and said, "But wouldn't you rather get a head start and make our way out of the park?" I stifled the urge to kick him in the shins and whisper shouted, "IT'S NOT A REQUEST WE NEED TO GO NOW," at which, I think, he got the point. He even kindly sped through the Meadows which is not recommended given the very enthusiastic police who will pull you over at the slightest provocation.
With deliverance close at hand, I unbuttoned my pants as I ran across the parking lot to the ladies room, body-checking a small child who I thought might get there ahead of me. I was in no mood to wait. I met Marc back at the car, the relief registering on my face in a contented smile. "Seriously?" he said, "You couldn't just go in the woods back at the climbing area?" "You know my rule," I replied, settling in happily and looking for some celebratory music on the iPod.
He just shook his head and started the drive back home wondering, I'm sure, how I consider myself any kind of outdoors-woman without being able to take care of this most simple of tasks. But you see, I HAVE done it once before and almost didn't live through the episode, the horror being too much to ever recall or document...and then there was the incident of the fry tray. So really, it's not for lack of experience that I don't want to have to deal with my own shit in such an intimate way. You have to draw the line somewhere.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Thank you to Facebook for a MeMeMe.
Three names I go by:
1. Jen
2. Jenny
3. Jennifer
Three jobs I have had in my life
1. I nannied for a family of three children from the time I was twelve until I graduated college. I've potty trained, taught little ones to chew with their mouths closed and changed more diapers than the average woman who has no children of her own.
2. Manager of a bagel shop in Los Altos. This led to an extreme hatred of any food with a hole in the middle.
3. Copy editor of my college newspaper. Given my complete lack of understanding where grammar and sentence structure is concerned, I still don't know how this came about.
Three places I have been
1. Tamarindo, Costa Rica. Last stop on our honeymoon. There was an outdoor shower wherein you could watch the monkeys swing from tree to tree. Pervy monkeys would watch you lather up...though if you're into that kind of thing, you should go there.
2. On the shores of Loch Ness, Scotland. No sign of Nessie, but my brother and I did spend a lot of time throwing rocks into the Loch to see if we could scare her out. Did I mention I was in my early 20's at the time? Maturity for the win!
3. All over Europe. Being as we have extended family there, it was mandatory growing up. Fun fact, my brother had never seen a naked woman until the age of 5 when he almost stepped on one while scrambling down to the shore while we were in Croatia. My mother had taken us to a secluded cove in an effort to shield us from all of the brazen hussies who were wandering around in their birthday suits up on the hotel beach. My brother, unfazed, reported back that she "had HUGE breasteses!"
People who text me regularly
1. My Mom. "Child! Shall we have coffee later?"
2. Marc. "Bump it, yo!"
3. Angie. "Wedding wedding wedding wedding."
Three of my favorite foods
1. Salad! Seriously. I should make you one and you would be forever converted.
2. Sushi. Because it rocks.
3. Tequila! Shut up. It's from agave, which is a food.
Three Things I am looking forward to
1. Retirement.
2. Getting a manservant. Because someone needs to bring me a latte and croissant to my bedside first thing in the morning.
3. Any vacation that includes me in a bathing suit in warm water.
Three places I've lived
1. St. Andrews, Scotland. Third year of college.
2. Hillsdale, Michigan. Sweet Jesus...three very cold years of college.
3. San Francisco, California. After college.
Three favorite drinks
1. Lately, Coconut water. Apparently, more potassium than a banana. But don't tell the bananas. They get sensitive about it.
2. Margarita, with salt. See favorite foods, #3.
3. A good, dry, sauvingnon blanc.
Three TV shows that I watch
1. So You Think You Can Dance
2. Burn Notice
3. True Blood. My version of porn.
1. Jen
2. Jenny
3. Jennifer
Three jobs I have had in my life
1. I nannied for a family of three children from the time I was twelve until I graduated college. I've potty trained, taught little ones to chew with their mouths closed and changed more diapers than the average woman who has no children of her own.
2. Manager of a bagel shop in Los Altos. This led to an extreme hatred of any food with a hole in the middle.
3. Copy editor of my college newspaper. Given my complete lack of understanding where grammar and sentence structure is concerned, I still don't know how this came about.
Three places I have been
1. Tamarindo, Costa Rica. Last stop on our honeymoon. There was an outdoor shower wherein you could watch the monkeys swing from tree to tree. Pervy monkeys would watch you lather up...though if you're into that kind of thing, you should go there.
2. On the shores of Loch Ness, Scotland. No sign of Nessie, but my brother and I did spend a lot of time throwing rocks into the Loch to see if we could scare her out. Did I mention I was in my early 20's at the time? Maturity for the win!
3. All over Europe. Being as we have extended family there, it was mandatory growing up. Fun fact, my brother had never seen a naked woman until the age of 5 when he almost stepped on one while scrambling down to the shore while we were in Croatia. My mother had taken us to a secluded cove in an effort to shield us from all of the brazen hussies who were wandering around in their birthday suits up on the hotel beach. My brother, unfazed, reported back that she "had HUGE breasteses!"
People who text me regularly
1. My Mom. "Child! Shall we have coffee later?"
2. Marc. "Bump it, yo!"
3. Angie. "Wedding wedding wedding wedding."
Three of my favorite foods
1. Salad! Seriously. I should make you one and you would be forever converted.
2. Sushi. Because it rocks.
3. Tequila! Shut up. It's from agave, which is a food.
Three Things I am looking forward to
1. Retirement.
2. Getting a manservant. Because someone needs to bring me a latte and croissant to my bedside first thing in the morning.
3. Any vacation that includes me in a bathing suit in warm water.
Three places I've lived
1. St. Andrews, Scotland. Third year of college.
2. Hillsdale, Michigan. Sweet Jesus...three very cold years of college.
3. San Francisco, California. After college.
Three favorite drinks
1. Lately, Coconut water. Apparently, more potassium than a banana. But don't tell the bananas. They get sensitive about it.
2. Margarita, with salt. See favorite foods, #3.
3. A good, dry, sauvingnon blanc.
Three TV shows that I watch
1. So You Think You Can Dance
2. Burn Notice
3. True Blood. My version of porn.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Shiny! And, like, ow.
So I spent yesterday participating in what I believe to be a common American male pastime - I waxed my car by my very-own-self. Actually, I should rephrase. Yesterday I spent what I think some men consider a Valid Way To Fritter Away an Afternoon but what I would categorize as Seemingly Eternal Agony With a Side of Shoulder Pain Dear GOD. BUT! My car is shiny! and new looking! a sparkly! and red again! I was only a bathing suit and burger away from being Paris Hilton in that Carl's Junior commercial! You're welcome for that visual on a Monday morning. You're either going, "YEAH MAMA!" or wondering if you can get an STD from watching a video on YouTube. I think they make a cream for that.
I decided to take on this God-forsaken task by myself because the owner of the car wash place had the audacity to suggest that he could take my oxidized car from dull to shiny for the mere sum of $300. I blanched at this. It's a small car! How long could waxing something the size of a SHOE BOX take? Plus BCBG was having a sale, so, like, no.
Six hours, it would appear. Six hours of my life that I will never have back. And as I flung my desperate and limp body back towards the house - where I barely missed being run over by my neighbor who, insensitively, did NOT offer to drive me the last 10 feet to my front door but instead honked and swerved as she veered past me and out of the driveway (whore) - I thought to myself that car-waxers might be the most underpaid and under-appreciated members of the automotive industry. Or at least I think that's what I thought. My right shoulder was screaming at me with such vigor that it was hard to hear anything until I poured that bottle of vodka down my throat - for medicinal purposes, naturally. The rest of the weekend is somewhat hazy as a result.
I would love for the moral of this story to be the uplifting power of doing something yourself. But really, if we're looking for a moral here I think it might be to just let the experts do their job - let's not even talk about [myhourlyrate x sixhours = morethan$300]. I'm not a math genius. Eleventeen! But seriously. My car. It's shiny. You should come see it. Also, I think I'm still drunk.
I decided to take on this God-forsaken task by myself because the owner of the car wash place had the audacity to suggest that he could take my oxidized car from dull to shiny for the mere sum of $300. I blanched at this. It's a small car! How long could waxing something the size of a SHOE BOX take? Plus BCBG was having a sale, so, like, no.
Six hours, it would appear. Six hours of my life that I will never have back. And as I flung my desperate and limp body back towards the house - where I barely missed being run over by my neighbor who, insensitively, did NOT offer to drive me the last 10 feet to my front door but instead honked and swerved as she veered past me and out of the driveway (whore) - I thought to myself that car-waxers might be the most underpaid and under-appreciated members of the automotive industry. Or at least I think that's what I thought. My right shoulder was screaming at me with such vigor that it was hard to hear anything until I poured that bottle of vodka down my throat - for medicinal purposes, naturally. The rest of the weekend is somewhat hazy as a result.
I would love for the moral of this story to be the uplifting power of doing something yourself. But really, if we're looking for a moral here I think it might be to just let the experts do their job - let's not even talk about [myhourlyrate x sixhours = morethan$300]. I'm not a math genius. Eleventeen! But seriously. My car. It's shiny. You should come see it. Also, I think I'm still drunk.
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