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Thursday, June 30, 2005

it isn' t bad luck....its God's wacky sense of humor

well today marked Day 1 of my triathlon training. By the way, there is no second "a" in triathlon. Google informed me its not spelled "triathalon"...even though it freaking sounds like it. Oh, and it’s not nucUlear by the way. It’s nuclear. Remember that. I don’t want you to learn the hard way, like I did…saying nuke-YOU-ler to my grandfather…who also happens to be a nuclear engineer. Geez you’d think I’d spit on the grave of General Patton the way he went off about that…
Where was I? Oh yes.

I had originally started out training for a half-marathon, because my dad had just qualified for the Boston marathon and I was inspired. Or maybe I was just trying yet another desperate, crackpot scheme to gain his approval and love. I can’t really remember what started it, but anyway I began running every day in order to build up an endurance base. Well, thing were going swimmingly…or runningly (haha, that’s a little running humor right there. It might not be funny to you, but to us runners its comic GOLD) and I was feeling really great until BAM! Out of nowhere this kid comes up to me and asks me to marry him. I was too distracted by a banana I was eating to really think clearly so I said “Yes” and here we are! (Just kidding!! I love my Mikey very much and we all know the real story…I was actually eating a Balance bar)

So, a more organized…or mentally stable…person may have been able to take this event in stride (STRIDE, get it??? No? Dammit people, I’m telling you ..runners eat this stuff up!!) but I am a “special needs” kind of person and so thusly fell into a complete tailspin.
I started spending my nights binge drinking and ogling china patterns in the latest issues of Modern Bride. I was a complete mess. Next thing I know, its six months later and I wake up covered in swatches of dress material and reeking of stale Champayno. Luckily I was able to pull myself together and that brings us to today.

I went on my first bike ride. Before I can even THINK about racing, I need to build an endurance base that consists of 20 minutes of continuous swimming, 30 minutes of biking and 20 minutes of running. So, being the go-getter that I am, I hopped on my bike and took off for 30 minutes of biking adventure.
Thirty – one minutes later, I stumble back to my apartment and literally toss my bike into the garage, striking my bus in the process (BONUS!!). My goodness it was hard. My legs are wobbly and I feel kinda woozy. Now before you laugh you ass off at me, you need to keep in mind a few key points:

(a) I am an AWFUL bike rider with almost no experience. I just never really picked it up. I learned to ride my bike late in childhood…and my lessons were regularly punctuated with painful collisions. I remember one in particular where I was careening down a hill, out-of-control, and ran right into a group of pedestrians, which launched me off my bike, over their heads and onto the ground below. I think the only reason the good Lord didn’t let me get paralyzed is because he would miss out on watching more of my zany biking catastrophes if I was a quadriplegic.
(2) I was riding around the bay…which if you didn’t know is an area that defies meteorological law by having the wind blow into you from EVERY DIRECTION. If you are moving north…the wind is blowing at you…turn around and walk south! Uh oh!! The wind is blowing at you!! Lie face down on the ground…somehow, the wind is still blowing at you. So I had to ride into gale force winds for the entire ride
(Point 3) I was doing my riding on my little beach cruiser. That’s right, my shiny pink bike with chrome wheel guards. Aside from being pink, it also has NO gears and to brake you have to backpedal. So any hill or grade I had to muscle my way through. Luckily I now have amazon-like TREE TRUNK legs so this wasn’t a problem. No kidding. Some people lose weight by running and lifting weights. I, however, gained about 5lbs of muscle and applied it directly to my ass and legs. That was another good one, God. Hope you're laughing it up.

Later today, I’ll attempt to run, if I gain the feeling back in my legs. And then next week…there’s swimming. Did I mention I was the only person in my 1st grade swim class to NOT jump off the diving board? I do however hold the record for “longest and most intense complete freak-out ever held on a diving board” at my school, so I should be fine….

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

I am a yogurt masochist

Every time I eat yogurt, it happens. And somehow, deep in the recesses of my consciousness, I know it’s going to happen. Maybe I'm always too preoccupied with the impending ingestion of LIVE ACTIVE CULTURES!! (ALL LIVE!! ALL NUDE!! ALL BACTERIA!!) Or maybe I'm fixated on attempting to FOR ONCE remove the foil lid in one piece (a SECOND lid, mind you. Is this to heighten the anticipation? Do the live yogurt cultures only work in your stomach if you’re PISSED off?) Of course, the lid always ends up shredding into about 14 different sections, showering little foil bits into your yogurt. Lately I've been leaving them; I could use the extra iron.
But I digress. In all the commotion, I forget the one interminable fact of yogurtdom: if you open the foil lid towards you, you will get covered in yogurt. It’s unavoidable. Like death, taxes and the re-emergence of Dick Clark from his cryogenic chamber every December 31. Each little yogurt container (carton? tub? receptacle?) is specially packaged with a little yogurt "burp" to ensure freshness. Seriously!! In my travels, I stumbled upon the Yoplait plant (nestled in the heart of the Dannon Mountains) and during the tour we met Johann, the little Swedish man whose job is to sit on a stool and breathe a little bit of Swedish goodness into each yogurt container. (Yogurt is Swedish right? What? It originated in Turkey? Really? Ohh thats right, it was a Swedish MASSAGE parlor I visited. Well, now that makes little Johann's presence a lot more disturbing....)

ANYWAY, if you've waded through the past few paragraphs in hope of finding a point to this story, don't worry, there is one. My point is that, although I KNOW that if I open the yogurt lid towards me I will get splooged with yogurt, I DON'T STOP DOING IT. Hence, the yogurt masochism. I don't know why I do it. It’s just like when I drink a Starbucks coffee with one of their crappy ill-fitting to-go lids on the cup.
All the lids do is direct the coffee AWAY from the tiny quarter inch slit you're supposed to drink from. Instead, the coffee pours directly out of the bottom of the lid and into your lap. Don't get mad though, it’s how the Europeans drink their coffee. We Americans are just ignorant morons who prefer our coffee in our mouths.

But anyway, I will regularly go through 15 minutes of hell that normally go like this...
*sip* "Dammit!! I got coffee on my pristine white shirt!"
*sip*..."Again!? What is going on?"
*sip*..."Is, is the coffee spilling OUT of the cup??"
*sip* "Dammit! I think it is! But I have the lid on! Maybe I should take one more drink to make sure"
*sip* "DAMN!! Now I'm almost 100% sure it’s the lid..."

I really need help.

PS. Diana's office stories are frickin HILARIOUS. Our book is going to have to come with a pack of adult diapers. Not because people will wet themselves laughing...but because I feel adult incontinence is something we as a nation need to openly address. No one should be ashamed of peeing.

Friday, June 24, 2005

From the Management

The author of this blog would like to apologize for the complete un-funniness and borderline cheesiness of the microwave post. In the past 3 days, she has gotten a total of 9 hours of sleep. At this state, the sound of a toilet flushing makes her burst into hysterical laughter. Please keep her in your prayers.

Don't play God with the microwave

You put your sad looking Tupperware full of last night's hamburger helper into the microwave for lunch. You put in two minutes confidently, distracted by the nagging feeling that you truly are white trash. But almost the instant you press the "Start" button with your grubby index finger...the Fear sets in.
The Fear That Your Food Will Explode in the Microwave.
Suddenly, two minutes seems like an eternity, and you curse the cavalier manner in which you punched in those numbers...so arrogantly...so foolishly.
What are you going to do? What are you going to DO??
Ok. Ok! You'll just let it go to one minute...that's all. Nothing could possibly explode in a minute, right?
You eye the clock anxiously, beads of sweat forming on your upper lip. Oh God. What if one minute IS too long?
No. NO! You won't let this hellish contraption of radiation and risk intimidate you. You can last a minute!!
But then you hear the faint hissing sounds from your food. Small pops and sizzles, signalling the slow detonation of your hamburger hiroshima bomb. It’s happening. It could blow at any second!!! 1:18...1:17...1:16...the hissing is growing louder. You are certain your food is doomed. The thought of scraping gooified ground meat from the inside of microwave turns your stomach. 1:12...1:11...1:10...
NO MORE!! YOU CAN'T TAKE IT!!! With a guttural shriek you throw open the microwave door and yank out your food at 1 minute and 7 seconds.
Oh thank God. It's completely unharmed.
You cast a smug look back at the microwave, leaving the door open as a cruel gesture of dominance.
Greedily, you shovel a forkful of greasy hamburger into your face.
The food is lukewarm.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

Yellow Mustard Girl vs. Drunk Old Men

Picture this scene:
Me, sleep deprived and grumpy, standing in the Express line at Ralph's, sucking down a small half-caf iced coffee, trying not to pass out and face plant into the stand of trashy magazines.
In front of me, a scruffy looking old guy clutches his 18 pack of Budweiser. Its 10AM.
Behind me, a scruffy looking old guy puts a Star magazine and a bottle of Captain Morgans on the conveyor belt. Again, its 10 AM.

Whatever. Drunk old men can do whatever they please. Just move along so I can pay for my cottage cheese and gum and go home. But no. It can never be that simple. Because for some reason, I emit a scent...a smell, a pheromone, an aroma if you will, that attracts every weird, perverted crotchety old man within a 10 mile radius. They hobble over to me, velcro shoes scuffling along, Skor canister bulging from their front pocket. They stick their stubbly, wrinkled faces about 2 inches from mine and let loose a mumbley string of sentences. Sometimes they're trying to give me advice. Sometimes, they're making a lewd joke. Sometimes, their meds are acting up and they think I'm actually a giant talking corn dog, and they begin nibbling on my arm (which luckily causes no pain since they're using their drool covered gums).

So of course, I should have expected that Mr. Budweiser would say something to me. I watch it happen in slow motion. The creaking of his enormous bald head, as he slowly turns towards me. The smell of stale bacon on his breath wafts from his mouth. I frantically try to look engrossed in the display of miniature toiletries at the checkout..."Oh look! A tiny bottle of Static Guard!! I SOO need one of these!!"
But it’s too late. We lock eyes. I'm pulled into his Old Man tractor beam. I fake a pleasant smile.
He leers at me for a long second, and then pokes my container of low-fat cottage cheese.
"You know, the real stuff tastes so much better."
And then he laughs for a good minute. Because the ridiculous VALIDITY of this statement is almost too much to bear. I cough out a polite, "Haaa."
Thanks so much mister. All this time I thought low-fat cottage cheese was the TASTIEST of the dairy curd products. But I'm only a foolish girl. I've been too shy...too sheltered to wonder if there was a world beyond lower-fat dairy products. But now I know. Thanks to you. Please, regale me with your wise stories of how full-fat cottage cheese saved your life during World War II.

Before the man has a chance to say anything else, the cashier informs him that his Budweiser is not $8.99, as he had thought. He is heartbroken, and wanders off to find something cheaper. The cashier begins to ring me up. I'm so close to freedom...the lady asks me if I have a Club card. Oh no!! I don't!! What am I going to do?? In my panic, I turn to the other old man next to me. Damn!!! Eye contact again!! I cringe as he leans towards me...my hand clutches the tub of cottage cheese, ready to bonk him on the head if he opens his mouth...
Instead, he places his Ralph's club card on the check out counter. The lady swipes it, and I get $2.oo off my total. Maybe the man was too drunk to actually speak. Maybe he was a mute. Maybe he was having a seizure and accidentally tossed the club card at me. It doesn't matter.
Today, I realized...not all old men are smelly, strange, semi-perverted purveyors of useless observations. Some...just some...are smelly strange semi-perverted Ralphs club card carrying purveyors of useless observations.
And I thank God for that.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Yeah, I make fun of the homeless a lot.

So just lay off me, ok?
They're everywhere around here! And a lot of them make more money and have better tans than I do...so I have every right to be bitter!!

Don't worry, in future posts I'll be sure to showcase my distaste for old people, Mexicans, Walmart employees, and girls that wear shirts that say stuff like, "Your boyfriend likes me", "100% cutie", "Trust me, I'm a slut."

my bus is going to kill me

Actual conversation with my 1970 Volkswagon bus:

Me: "Hey Bat-mo-bus...that's my nickname for you, by the way. Isn't that clever?"
Me: "I guess I'll take that silence as a resounding yes."
Me: "Anyway, guess what your drunk ass hippie former owner did? He wrote a bad check for your title transfer LAST year and just NOW the DMV is realizing this and telling me I'M the one that has to pay the $160 bad check fee."
Me: "Do you understand how ludicrous that is??!"
Me: "Of course you don't. This is all par for the course with you, isn't it? First you get your damn gas cap stolen. Way to watch out for yourself there. Then you let your gas get siphoned out by some homeless idiot.
Passing homeless man: "Fuck you!"
Me: "And THEN your 'brand new' battery dies in the parking lot of a meditteranean restaurant and Mario the cook had to give me a freaking jump. "
Me: "Damn it! Listen to me when I'm yelling at you!! And THEN, to add insult to injury, when I finally fix you and drive you, you turn out to be a finicky son of a beach! You don't stay in gear, you have NO power steering or brakes, forcing me to use all of my feeble strength just to point you in the right direction. Oh! And your turn signal doesn't shut off automatically!!! What the hell?!?! You were supposed to be my fun, happy, light-hearted love bus!! You're nothing but pure German EVIL!!!"
I then proceed to beat the exterior of the bus with my bare fists and scraps of wood I find on the floor of the garage before I eventually fall, weeping, to the pavement
Passing homeless man: "Fuck you!!"

Yeah. My bus has not amounted to what I thought it would be. I guess I should have realized what I was dealing with when the guy that sold it to me told me he was drunk during the test drive....and one of the features he pointed out was a place to stash a pound of weed if I wanted to cross the border.
I can't believe I'm going to end up selling this thing. And I'll probably end up buying a Toyota. Oh damn you Baron Von Volkswagon and your hideous invention!!! Damn you to hell!

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

I live in San Diego. Pacific Beach, specifically, and around here everyone seems to think We Are The Chosen People because we're within 5 hours of almighty LA. And since we are living near the center of the universe, its every man, woman and dog's job to be on the cutting edge of fashion. Retch. And I thought it was bad enough watching sorority girls at Penn State imitating (badly) the fashions they saw in a two-month old copy of Cosmo. I still develop an angry twitch when I see a girl with a trucker hat, floofy skirt and nasty Uggs.

But now, outfits are much more complicated.
For instance, I don't get this whole, "boho chic" look. I see it everywhere. In the magazines, in the stores, on the streets. Even the bag ladies in my neighborhood are looking more hip than me. What am I missing here? (if you are fortunate enough to not know what "boho" even means, please educate yourself with this link)
I guess the first problem is that I don't like wearing more than ONE of something. I'm fine with my one shirt, thank you very much mister. But to these boho's, why wear one shirt, when you can where FIVE? And make sure they're all different sizes, textures, colors and sleeve lengths. Then pair it with a skirt or two, a pair of jeans, some leggins, a couple shawls, a hat and about 40 lbs of bead necklaces. There. Oh! Don't forget your enormous gold lamé bag...you'll need it to store your back-up set of clothing, in case one of your many long, flowey, trailing articles gets stuck on a nail, or caught in an escalator, or wrapped around the head of a passerby and then ripped off.

And don't be fooled. Living in SoCal doesn't mean that the guys around here dress like laid back surfers. No, they wear equally nonsensical and silly looking clothing. Like the now-famous pink Lacoste shirt with a popped collar and a SINGLE sweatband, worn at the elbow. WHY?! WHAT ARE THESE THINGS FOR!?!?!
Why pop the collar? What are you protecting your neck from? The harsh noonday sun? Bad neck acne? And the sweatband? Why just one? Do only one of your arms sweat? Do you wear it at your elbow because you suffer from a condition where a single elbow sweats uncontrollably? (Most likely the same affliction that gives you terrible neck zits)

Everyone else around here doesn't do much better. The dogs are often dressed in expensive outfits or stuffed into purses (remember with the boho look, you want to carry at least 2, even 3 minitiature dogs on you). The old locals usually wear one or two peices of Body Glove spandex, thereby allowing them to continue tanning their skin into a nice orangey leather. And the homeless...well, actually, the homeless are often dressed better than me. The thrift shops in PB are different than in PA. Back home, you find the usual stuff on the racks: green Hanes sweatpants in XXXL and about 30-40 different t-shirts with some variation of Tweety or Taz on them. But around here, the Goodwill's carry old Christian Dior tops and Seven jeans. And they're usually PACKED with stuff, cause everything everyone wears is sooo five minutes ago.
Its too depressing to even try to keep up with the trends. Thats why I just wear the paper bags I get from Trader Joe's. Just a couple snips of the scissors and voila! I have a sweet tunic, skirt and awesome helmet. Whats up now, homeless dude?

Monday, June 13, 2005

Decided to give this whole blogging schtick a second chance. I have been desperately needing a creative outlet lately; I can't even consider planning a wedding a creative endevour. Its just work and money to me right now!!
I can't guarantee I'll be posting regularly, but I CAN absolutely ensure you that this will be a pretty futile attempt to sound interesting.

So anyway...enjoy :)

Monday, June 06, 2005

Mike's tattoo! Posted by Hello

Close up Posted by Hello

Its my new tattoo! Posted by Hello

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