My life is now a little bit more complete. Wednesday night I went to my first Denver Cruisers extravaganza and had no idea that I was in for the time of my life. The theme was Wild, Wild West and ohhh sweet Jesus, was it ever. Recap:
1. Cruise with coworker + friends down to Cowboy Lounge (one of my personal faves...) to start the night off. On our way, we ran into the pack of Cruisers who were coming from Casselman's which was a nice little treat. Some middle-aged woman was talking about "deuces" the entire ride there while other people yelled random obscenities and drank out of mini Coors Light cans (put that on the list for next week).
2. We hung out on top of the Tavern/Cowboy Lounge for about an hour, drinking tallboys of Busch Light (so classy), orange slushy things (mmm), and maaaaaybe some bottom-shelf whiskey. God is good. I can't even begin to describe the crowd there: unknown genders, flame-printed assless chaps + Christmas lights + oversized foam cowboy hat = best costume of the night... and Boobs McGee. She deserves a number all to herself...
3. We first caught sight of Boobs McGee while people watching over the edge of the balcony. She was running (gross visual... you'll understand in a minute) across the street to Lodo's with a group of equally nasty women wearing a cut-off tee, fishnet stockings, bootay shortz, one of those creepy little kids' cowboy hats (or maybe she just made it look creepy), aaaaaaaaaand glittery stars pasted over her nips. Um. WTF. So as we were making a scene of the scene, the guy standing next to me said, "Oh yeah, that's Rachel. She does this every week." Naturally, I wanted to know everything about this disaster of a woman, so this guy showed me a picture of her during a past Hula Cruisers theme (I vomited on the spot) and said she's an aspiring stripper. Well duh. I'll give her a quarter of a point for having the ballz to wear her effing ridiculous outfit, but for God's sake... no no no no no no no. I would post a picture of this abomination of a woman (because I was unlucky enough to snag a pic later in the night), but I have no interest in promoting her actions. Girlfriend is a little desperate for attention...
4. Circle of death. This is apparently the highlight of the Cruiser events... we went to these alien-looking statues outside the convention center and watched the brave souls ride aroundandaroundandaround until some douche bag turns the opposite direction and makes everyone crash. I'm proud to say I made it one lap on my bike and a few laps on some creepish old guy's chariot-style bike with my new galpal Emi. I think the night spiked there.
5. Bender's Bar. Ok, this was just awesome. They had this awesome old school country band playing (granny bass player was another spike in the evening--I might have a new life goal brewing thanks to her) and were serving tall boys of PBR. Hahaha yessssss. As the night wore on and people got shittier, the pictures kept getting better and better, including Boobs McGee and this creepy little guy wearing a sheriff's outfit and quite clearly had noooo idea where he was. Just heartwarming.
6. Benny Blanco's pizzzza post-partay. My Cruiser posse and I sat outside on Denver's newest addition: rentable cruiser bikes and snarfed some amazing pizza. A group of soon-to-be-new-friends stumbled by asking us where they could score a J and despite their disappointment that our crew was as unlucky as them, hung out on the bikes with us. The pedals could only turn backwards, so we were cool enough to have backwards races (...) and I wound up with a few scrapes and bruises. I guess I kind of got into it. These things happen, people.
7. Drunk dial (big deal for me because I don't usually do this, but it was a supa end to the evening) + snooze in my car (not my finest moment) + early day to work (gross) = one tired little lady.
Thank you, Cruisers. I love you. Next week: Celebrity Rehab...
5/28/10
5/25/10
summer in the citay.
It’s unofficially summer in the Mile High City and I couldn’t be happier about it. I think what I love most about summer is that when the first sunny day hits, people instantly ignore all rules of social normalcy. Finally we’re getting somewhere, people. Summer is everyone’s excuse to let loose and do whatever they want because no one really cares. Like Saturday in Wash Park… I was running off the margs from Friday night’s Foco trip and got treated to some quality summer sites. Here are a few of my faves:
1. Pants are optional. I saw a few women walking around wearing only bikini bottoms and tank tops. So naturally I wanted to join in, but I guess there’s a difference between undies and bikini bottoms… at least that’s what the officer said when he gave me my ultimatum. Who knew? So I guess pants are only optional if a swimsuit is involved. Thanks for letting me in on that little secret after the fact. Kidding, by the way... kind of.
2. Shirts are a suggestion. I saw everything from manboobies to beerbellies to sort-of-six packs to teeny weeny bikinis to hair cardigans on Saturday. God I love summer. Even though I've seen heaps of hair cardigans in my lifetime, every time I see a new one, I turn into a 5-year-old girl who’s just walked into a pet store. I just want to reach out and touch one. Ew. OK that was a lie. I’ve thought about handing out razors to the rrrrreally hairy ones (you know, just as a subtle hint), but then I’m reminded of this super creepy guy who used to walk around my hometown and drop razors on the sidewalks, telling people the world was ending. (True story.) I always wondered what happened to that guy…
3. Beer. For breakfast, lunch, mid-day snack, dinner, fifth meal, sixth, seventh, twelfth… there’s really nothing better than this little summer rule. Raise your hand if you hate getting day drunk… if your hand is raised right now, please leave my blog and never come back. Thanks. I watched some Fratty McBrosefs carrying six-packs, cases and kegs into the park. Um, did I mention I’m gonna be living a few blocks away from the Mecca of All Things Supa in a few short weeks? And I’m peepants excited about it.
So while I was enjoying my people watching over the weekend, I kind of missed one key element for summer: sunscreen. For some reason, I’m still convinced that my skin can withstand direct sunlight for hours at a time, but hey, good news… the sun always shows me who’s boss and who’s the little betch. Awesome. Sunday afternoon I had a two-hour brunch with my friend on the patio of Yia Yia’s, then headed straight for the Tavern’s rooftop bar for ohhhh a few more hours of direct sunlight and frostybrews. Right, well anyone who thinks this is a good idea is a complete ritard. For the past few days I’ve closely resembled a lobster, not to mention the fact that anything that touches my skin feels like hot coals. Maybe someday I’ll learn, but I guess the few days of pain are worth the bronzy hot tan I’ll have by the end of the week. Too bad it’s more of a farmer’s tan than anything remotely sexy, but I’ll take what I can get.
1. Pants are optional. I saw a few women walking around wearing only bikini bottoms and tank tops. So naturally I wanted to join in, but I guess there’s a difference between undies and bikini bottoms… at least that’s what the officer said when he gave me my ultimatum. Who knew? So I guess pants are only optional if a swimsuit is involved. Thanks for letting me in on that little secret after the fact. Kidding, by the way... kind of.
2. Shirts are a suggestion. I saw everything from manboobies to beerbellies to sort-of-six packs to teeny weeny bikinis to hair cardigans on Saturday. God I love summer. Even though I've seen heaps of hair cardigans in my lifetime, every time I see a new one, I turn into a 5-year-old girl who’s just walked into a pet store. I just want to reach out and touch one. Ew. OK that was a lie. I’ve thought about handing out razors to the rrrrreally hairy ones (you know, just as a subtle hint), but then I’m reminded of this super creepy guy who used to walk around my hometown and drop razors on the sidewalks, telling people the world was ending. (True story.) I always wondered what happened to that guy…
3. Beer. For breakfast, lunch, mid-day snack, dinner, fifth meal, sixth, seventh, twelfth… there’s really nothing better than this little summer rule. Raise your hand if you hate getting day drunk… if your hand is raised right now, please leave my blog and never come back. Thanks. I watched some Fratty McBrosefs carrying six-packs, cases and kegs into the park. Um, did I mention I’m gonna be living a few blocks away from the Mecca of All Things Supa in a few short weeks? And I’m peepants excited about it.
So while I was enjoying my people watching over the weekend, I kind of missed one key element for summer: sunscreen. For some reason, I’m still convinced that my skin can withstand direct sunlight for hours at a time, but hey, good news… the sun always shows me who’s boss and who’s the little betch. Awesome. Sunday afternoon I had a two-hour brunch with my friend on the patio of Yia Yia’s, then headed straight for the Tavern’s rooftop bar for ohhhh a few more hours of direct sunlight and frostybrews. Right, well anyone who thinks this is a good idea is a complete ritard. For the past few days I’ve closely resembled a lobster, not to mention the fact that anything that touches my skin feels like hot coals. Maybe someday I’ll learn, but I guess the few days of pain are worth the bronzy hot tan I’ll have by the end of the week. Too bad it’s more of a farmer’s tan than anything remotely sexy, but I’ll take what I can get.
5/19/10
smooooooth jazz.
Can someone please explain to me what is with this smooth jazz crap? This morning some 1960s mood music was streaming through the speakers in my office... not exactly my ideal start to hump day. Thankfully Amen Omen was the song waiting for me on my iPod... and I laaaauuuughed at the irony.
I'm on hold right now with one of our service providers and considering I just saw the second mark hit 7 min, 44 sec... I thought this would be a nice little opportunity to squeeze in a vent. Besides, I just got back to my desk after listening to a psychologist talk about coping strategies for on-the-job stress, i.e. journaling. I feel like admitting to "journaling" (face it, bloggers, all you really are are glorified journalers) is almost as taboo as admitting that you're an alcoholic. Hello, my name is Melissa... and I'm a journaler, I love cats (and dogs), books are my favorite, and I bake muffins for my coworkers. I'm pretty sure that's ten times worse than just admitting that I have a drinking problem. Too bad I don't care.
Anyway, I just got off the phone with Arnie, the support guy... I rrrrreally think it's written in the job requisition that in order to be an on-call technical support person, you're required to have a name like that, or Belinda, Ronnie, Wally, Crystal, Vu, Darwin, Sasha... I could go on. Today Arnie had to help me log back into one of my accounts because I got locked out of our site. Damn passwords. Thanks to this little incident I spent the better part of 15 minutes with Kenny F-ing G making lurrrv to his tenor sax in my ear. Now don't get me wrong, I love a good swanky jazz sax from time to time, but my God, Kenny G is an abomination to jazz. The only thing I like about him is his hair. Obvs. But every time I hear his music, I'm launched back in time to my grandparents' living room, listening to my grandma hum to her heart's contentment and all I really wanted to do was put my face in a pillow and scream. So back to square one: what's the deal with elevators, hold-lines, grocery stores, dentist offices, etc. (you get the point) playing this crap? In college, my Jazz History professor's reasoning for this (after he got done tearing this genre to shreds) was that it's neutral... OK, I get that you probably don't need a fight to break out in the produce isle over some questionable Chingy lyrics, but come onnnn. I don't think a little Led Zeppelin would hurt mixed in with some Susan Boyle every now and then. I also can't really imagine being a professional smooth jazz player actually has that many perks anyway. Picture a guy walking up to a pretty lady holding his flute and asking her out... Ha. Now, picture the same scenario but put John Legend or Joe Perry in his place and guess who will get the girl 10 times out of 10. He's not holding a flute.
I'm on hold right now with one of our service providers and considering I just saw the second mark hit 7 min, 44 sec... I thought this would be a nice little opportunity to squeeze in a vent. Besides, I just got back to my desk after listening to a psychologist talk about coping strategies for on-the-job stress, i.e. journaling. I feel like admitting to "journaling" (face it, bloggers, all you really are are glorified journalers) is almost as taboo as admitting that you're an alcoholic. Hello, my name is Melissa... and I'm a journaler, I love cats (and dogs), books are my favorite, and I bake muffins for my coworkers. I'm pretty sure that's ten times worse than just admitting that I have a drinking problem. Too bad I don't care.
Anyway, I just got off the phone with Arnie, the support guy... I rrrrreally think it's written in the job requisition that in order to be an on-call technical support person, you're required to have a name like that, or Belinda, Ronnie, Wally, Crystal, Vu, Darwin, Sasha... I could go on. Today Arnie had to help me log back into one of my accounts because I got locked out of our site. Damn passwords. Thanks to this little incident I spent the better part of 15 minutes with Kenny F-ing G making lurrrv to his tenor sax in my ear. Now don't get me wrong, I love a good swanky jazz sax from time to time, but my God, Kenny G is an abomination to jazz. The only thing I like about him is his hair. Obvs. But every time I hear his music, I'm launched back in time to my grandparents' living room, listening to my grandma hum to her heart's contentment and all I really wanted to do was put my face in a pillow and scream. So back to square one: what's the deal with elevators, hold-lines, grocery stores, dentist offices, etc. (you get the point) playing this crap? In college, my Jazz History professor's reasoning for this (after he got done tearing this genre to shreds) was that it's neutral... OK, I get that you probably don't need a fight to break out in the produce isle over some questionable Chingy lyrics, but come onnnn. I don't think a little Led Zeppelin would hurt mixed in with some Susan Boyle every now and then. I also can't really imagine being a professional smooth jazz player actually has that many perks anyway. Picture a guy walking up to a pretty lady holding his flute and asking her out... Ha. Now, picture the same scenario but put John Legend or Joe Perry in his place and guess who will get the girl 10 times out of 10. He's not holding a flute.
5/18/10
pro climber.
I think I have a new goal.
Backstory: A couple weeks ago, I was talking to one of my company's paralegals who is probably one of the most bombshell 50-somethings I know. Some people would call her a Cougar... whathaveyou. (Oh, and of course I was with my faaaavesies, Bonnie, who knows everythingabouteverything, so I obviously didn't do a whole lot of talking during this convo. I still managed to get in a few good questions. Speaking of the Bonster... she shuffled into my cube earlier today to talk to me about Godknowswhat and I swear she farted en route. Good Lord those Ensure shake farts really sting your nose.) Throughout the day, the Cougar paralegal will walk down to our gym to lift weights for 10-15 minutes at a time. I remember the first time I saw her doing this. I went to the gym to do a few downward dogs and decided against it when I saw her because I prefer to do my yoga in privacy if possible. Nothing like having someone walk in on you during the middle of a somewhat compromising position, then having to see them again in the copy room an hour later. Anyway, she was wearing a minidress (refer back to short shortz...), spike heels, and was pumping out some shoulder presses like nobody's business. It took me a little while not to both think this was strange and be a little jealous of her 5'10" size-sixness, but let's be honest, I got over it.
Well apparently she is a competitive stair climber and likes to train in short sessions during the day... holy. balls. that. is. awesome. She told me that these little competitions are held in the tallest buildings all over the world and people get suuuuuper serious about it. In a few weeks she's going to L.A., then later to NYC to compete. So of course I did my research and the record for the Willis Tower in Chicago is like 20 minutes to the top. Can you imagine the butt on that guy? Giving him a little love tap clearly would be out of the question for fear of breaking your hand on one of his rock solid cheeks. Omigod I want that. Besides, how awesome would it be to be the world's best stair climber? OK maybe not that awesome... or even something you ever mention in public... ever... but whatever, I still think it would be cool.
So I think I might start climbing the stairs at work every day. Maybe I can even start a climbing group. We could make T-shirts...
Goal #4,862: Champion Stair Climber. If anyone has a connection to Nike, you can probably go ahead and give them the heads up so that they can transfer their sponsorship from Tigercan'tkeephispantson to me. Thanks.
Backstory: A couple weeks ago, I was talking to one of my company's paralegals who is probably one of the most bombshell 50-somethings I know. Some people would call her a Cougar... whathaveyou. (Oh, and of course I was with my faaaavesies, Bonnie, who knows everythingabouteverything, so I obviously didn't do a whole lot of talking during this convo. I still managed to get in a few good questions. Speaking of the Bonster... she shuffled into my cube earlier today to talk to me about Godknowswhat and I swear she farted en route. Good Lord those Ensure shake farts really sting your nose.) Throughout the day, the Cougar paralegal will walk down to our gym to lift weights for 10-15 minutes at a time. I remember the first time I saw her doing this. I went to the gym to do a few downward dogs and decided against it when I saw her because I prefer to do my yoga in privacy if possible. Nothing like having someone walk in on you during the middle of a somewhat compromising position, then having to see them again in the copy room an hour later. Anyway, she was wearing a minidress (refer back to short shortz...), spike heels, and was pumping out some shoulder presses like nobody's business. It took me a little while not to both think this was strange and be a little jealous of her 5'10" size-sixness, but let's be honest, I got over it.
Well apparently she is a competitive stair climber and likes to train in short sessions during the day... holy. balls. that. is. awesome. She told me that these little competitions are held in the tallest buildings all over the world and people get suuuuuper serious about it. In a few weeks she's going to L.A., then later to NYC to compete. So of course I did my research and the record for the Willis Tower in Chicago is like 20 minutes to the top. Can you imagine the butt on that guy? Giving him a little love tap clearly would be out of the question for fear of breaking your hand on one of his rock solid cheeks. Omigod I want that. Besides, how awesome would it be to be the world's best stair climber? OK maybe not that awesome... or even something you ever mention in public... ever... but whatever, I still think it would be cool.
So I think I might start climbing the stairs at work every day. Maybe I can even start a climbing group. We could make T-shirts...
Goal #4,862: Champion Stair Climber. If anyone has a connection to Nike, you can probably go ahead and give them the heads up so that they can transfer their sponsorship from Tigercan'tkeephispantson to me. Thanks.
5/17/10
southern adventures.
This past weekend I had the pleasure of logging about 13 glorious hours in my car through scenic and rustic Southern Colorado/New Mexico. As exciting as this probably doesn't sound... trust me, it was great. I never cease to be amazed by the random things that happen when I set off on a new little adventure. Good thing these past few days were no exception.
Friday night we made our way to a little all nighter partay. When I hear the words all nighter, naturally my first thought is a 6th grade girls' slumber party, closely followed by a high school lock-in... but this was nothing like it. And thank Baby Jesus for that. We walked in to find a dance floor full of what could possibly have been mistaken for an orgy and I made a bee-line for the ladies room. All graphic images aside, I was in the stall and happened to overhear a girl say to her friend, "Girrrl did you see those crackers in there?" Huh… waitwaitwait, is cracker still legitimately being used? Last time I was called a cracker was by my student coach at basketball camp when I was 13. I had thought she was really cool up until that point, but bitch lost some real cred with that one... until she put me on the All-Star team of course... then I figured I'd give her a second chance. Don't judge. Anyway, being the cracker that I am, I counted to ten before I left the stall. The last thing I needed was to get shoved into a trash can for making a wrong move. Yeah, try explaining something like that to a bunch of people you've just met.
So instead of pulling the Nancy card, we just decided to join in and, well, I'd be lying if I said the two cool white kids on the dance floor didn't make a bit of a spectacle. I'll never admit that Kyle's moves were better than mine because when it comes to dancing, I just refuse to be that humble, but let's just say I learned a few new moves that the Lodo bars might not be ready for. Get over it, Denver.
Fast forward to Sunday afternoon: I packed up my things and hit the back roads of NM. Aaaaand just about 30 miles later, I looked at my fuel gauge and saw the needle hanging out around the E.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
So I think to myself, OK whatever, I'm coming up on a few towns... there’s gotta be a gas station somewhere, right? Town #1: Forgot the name... I blinked at it was gone. Great. Town #2: Grady. Ohhh hey, they have a school and about 12 more houses + lawn chairs than the first "town," but after cruising their 3 streets, I realized there was no effing gas station. Omigodthisisn'thappening. For about .7 seconds I considered calling Kyle to come save me, but my pride/stubbornness took over and I opted for Plan B: a cute little granny mowing her lawn. I knew what I had to do. I circled the block, parked my car and waved at Mowing Granny. Yeah, not sketchy at all Melissa. Once she decided I wasn't going to whip out my 9 and bust a cap... or whatever… she turned off her mower and gave me the once-over. If I wasn’t so desperate, I would have felt moderately violated. She seemed nice enough when I asked her where the nearest gas station was, but of course her answer felt like a huge punchintheface. Of course the closest gas station was over 20 miles away. Oh my life. So I tucked my proverbial tail between my legs and asked if she knew anyone who might have some gas (obvi I’m not stupid… considering she was riding a lawnmower at the moment…) to spare a silly little city girl. So $20 and two gallons of gas later, I thanked Mowing Granny for her generosity and cruised down the road to San Jon. Whoever that lady was, she’s got some seriously good Karma headed her way.
Once I got to San Jon, I filled up my car with gas and grabbed a bag of M&Ms. I needed to eat my feelings. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of pure humiliation when you realize the epic blonde move you’ve just pulled. Noted.
After making it through an immigration check-point with flying colors, passing an unruly amount of minivans and pick-ups (apparently I didn’t get the memo that my car was unacceptable on NM highways), and paying for my gas to a man who had the most unbelievable unibrow I’ve ever seen in my life, I made it home. At least next time I’ll come prepared. Maybe I’ll even rent a minivan for good measure.
5/14/10
in.you.end.o.
Holy hell, I'm reading an article on buyer agent's vs. subagent's responsibility to inform buyers/sellers of latent defects... and am going nuts. So what better way to wake myself up than chat about one of my faaaaavorite subjects: Christian music.
Yesterday I was driving to a benefit dinner for an organization my coworker volunteers for and was stuck in the lovely mayhem of Colorado Blvd's rush hour. And it was raining. And people turn into slugs when it's raining. I feel like Colorado drivers are nearing me closer and closer to a coronary embolism every time I get behind the wheel. Oh sure, I don't mind the fact that you're not only driving like a wounded turtle, but you're on your phone, painting your nails, and lighting up a J. Typical.
Anyway, I killed the time by scanning radio stations because there's only so much "Bedrock" or "Oh My Gosh" I can hear before I literally have to roll down the window and vomit. I came across an unknown station that had a song on that sounded like a rough Indie cut, so I stayed there for awhile. It sounded kind of cool, so I listened to the lyrics a little more closely... only to figure out that I had come across a Christian music station. Ha.
I'll admit that for like a year in middle/high school, I was a Nicole C. Mullen fan and maybe sang "We Will Dance" and "Lord I Life Your Name On High" in the shower, but I quickly learned that I was toeing the line of social corruption, so I reevaluated and turned my focus elsewhere. Some may argue my decision was the opposite and I actually turned corrupt, but I happen to disagree and I'll tell you one reason why: the lyrics. Um, have you ever listened to a contemporary Christian song? It's chalked FULL of innuendo. I'm of the opinion that this is intentional. "You Raise Me Up..." Huh. Yeah, Josh Groban, I bet so. Despite his undeniably incredible and velvety pipes, he's the biggest offender there is. Did you really think people would take you seriously for singing about getting, uh, raised up? Silly, silly man.
Another one: "I don't know how but there's power when I'm on my knees." Riiiiiiiiight. My best friend in Scarlet and Cream sang this bad boy during auditions our first year and yes, it was absolutely incredible because Sums has the most amazing voice ever, but she was never able to live it down. (That's probably because we Screamers were born with our heads in the gutter, but that's beside the point.) I realize that people pray on their knees, blahblahblah, but come on people, you reeeaaaally should think twice before copywriting that biz. Just a thought.
I know I always say this, but it just warms my heart. Really.
I could go on and on, but the fact is that I get way more amusement out of the fact that the people who are suuuper into this stuff (and don't see/ignore the innuendo) are just completely kidding themselves. Moreover, I think it's kind of a subliminal thing. Like it's their way of saying, "I really just want to hop in the sack, but I'm gonna pretend like I'm singing about sending praises and letting him come in... (you get the point)."
So with those thoughts, I switched the station to come across a song a little more blatant about its sexual innuendo: My Chick Bad. Now that's more like it, Ludacris. Just throw in a little J. Bieber and life's golden.
Yesterday I was driving to a benefit dinner for an organization my coworker volunteers for and was stuck in the lovely mayhem of Colorado Blvd's rush hour. And it was raining. And people turn into slugs when it's raining. I feel like Colorado drivers are nearing me closer and closer to a coronary embolism every time I get behind the wheel. Oh sure, I don't mind the fact that you're not only driving like a wounded turtle, but you're on your phone, painting your nails, and lighting up a J. Typical.
Anyway, I killed the time by scanning radio stations because there's only so much "Bedrock" or "Oh My Gosh" I can hear before I literally have to roll down the window and vomit. I came across an unknown station that had a song on that sounded like a rough Indie cut, so I stayed there for awhile. It sounded kind of cool, so I listened to the lyrics a little more closely... only to figure out that I had come across a Christian music station. Ha.
I'll admit that for like a year in middle/high school, I was a Nicole C. Mullen fan and maybe sang "We Will Dance" and "Lord I Life Your Name On High" in the shower, but I quickly learned that I was toeing the line of social corruption, so I reevaluated and turned my focus elsewhere. Some may argue my decision was the opposite and I actually turned corrupt, but I happen to disagree and I'll tell you one reason why: the lyrics. Um, have you ever listened to a contemporary Christian song? It's chalked FULL of innuendo. I'm of the opinion that this is intentional. "You Raise Me Up..." Huh. Yeah, Josh Groban, I bet so. Despite his undeniably incredible and velvety pipes, he's the biggest offender there is. Did you really think people would take you seriously for singing about getting, uh, raised up? Silly, silly man.
Another one: "I don't know how but there's power when I'm on my knees." Riiiiiiiiight. My best friend in Scarlet and Cream sang this bad boy during auditions our first year and yes, it was absolutely incredible because Sums has the most amazing voice ever, but she was never able to live it down. (That's probably because we Screamers were born with our heads in the gutter, but that's beside the point.) I realize that people pray on their knees, blahblahblah, but come on people, you reeeaaaally should think twice before copywriting that biz. Just a thought.
I know I always say this, but it just warms my heart. Really.
I could go on and on, but the fact is that I get way more amusement out of the fact that the people who are suuuper into this stuff (and don't see/ignore the innuendo) are just completely kidding themselves. Moreover, I think it's kind of a subliminal thing. Like it's their way of saying, "I really just want to hop in the sack, but I'm gonna pretend like I'm singing about sending praises and letting him come in... (you get the point)."
So with those thoughts, I switched the station to come across a song a little more blatant about its sexual innuendo: My Chick Bad. Now that's more like it, Ludacris. Just throw in a little J. Bieber and life's golden.
5/12/10
confession wednesday.
I'm on my lunch break and figured I could squeeze in a little blogging sesh...
On my drive to work today, I was listening to a wholesome little radio talk show I like to refer to as my saving grace each morning: John Jay and Rich. It gives me the opportunity to start my day off right: by laughing at (with) the stupid shit people do. My faaaavorite feature they do is on Thursday mornings called War of the Roses, but for some reason they changed it from 7:50 to 8:50 AM. OMG the first time I realized they switched times, I couldn't believe they'd rob my mornings of this little treasure. Every Thursday they have some toolbag call in and whine about how they think their boytoy/girlyfriend is cheating on them... blahblahblah. So after they listen to this pathetic sob story, the DJs call this person's bf/gf and offer them a dozen free roses to send to anyone. They alwaysalwaysalways describe the roses as "hot and steamy" and I seriously want to throw something at my radio every time they say this because who the eff refers to roses as hot and steamy? This falls into the same category as calling anything.... moist... Sicksicksick. Anyway. More often than not, the guy (usually a guy because let's be honest, only a girl could be psycho enough to call a radio station to find out if her douche bag bf is cheating on her) would name someone else and request to write something on the card like, "See you tonight...," "Hey, sexy thang," or my personal fave, "Break me off a piece." THEN comes the drama and ohhh mahh gawwwd it just warms my heart. The gf alllllways flips out, reinforcing the fact that bitchiscrazy, then threatens to tell all of her bf's deepest darkest secrets. One girl announced that she's a saint because she's put up with his herpes for 10 years only to find out he's been hooking up with some ho-bag behind his back. Ummm WTF. This is like trash TV, radio style, and I. Love. It.
On Wednesdays they have Confession Wednesday allll morning (thank God for that) and this morning's confessions were un-be-lieve-able. I'm pretty sure I wet my pants from a combo of laughter/shock/utter disgust. Examples:
1. Girl #1 admits that when she was 16 she slept with her stepdad while her mom was at the hospital having a baby… then continued the dirrrrtybird relationship with this guy until Momsy discovered it about a year later. Classy lady.
2. Girl #2 was an adjunct professor at a uni in New Mexico who had a Hottie McHotandsteamy student flirting with her. He kept pursuing and tempted her with Lady Gaga tickets who she’s apparently obsessed with, so she went to dinner with him. (Oh, and she also has a bf. What a moron.) Anyway, this kid says to her, “Ok, here’s what I want: An A in my class and you in the sack.” So what does she do? She goes for it, sleeps with him and gives him an A on his final, thinking he’s going to give her two Lady Gaga tickets in return. Instead, she gets: 1. Probation from the school for giving the kid an undeserved A, 2. Crabs, 3. No tickets. Sweet life.
3. Girl #3 (WHY ARE THEY ALL GIRLS?) calls in to confess that she had a threesome with her fiancé’s parents and has continued the relationship with her future mother-in-law. Oh, and she’s getting married on Monday. Awesommme.
4. Guy #1 used to work for a mortuary and sent the wrong infant’s body to the wrong family. Ok people, this is where I draw the line. I guess it’s against protocol to open an infant’s casket after it’s been nailed shut and shipped off, so no one ever found out… I wonder how many times this actually has happened…
5. Guy #2 has a 3-year-old child who he refers to as "the child" with a babymama stripper he slept with at his bachelor party. His wife doesn't know about any of it and actually jokingly said to him before the party, "Don't sleep with any strippers!" He's been "happily" married for three years now, doesn't pay child support on "the child," and is probably one of the biggest Donnies I hoped never existed. Hey reality, thanks for that nice slap in the face.
These confessions put anything I could ever say to shame. If I called in, I’d probably say something superawesome liiiike, “Hey, so my confession is that I stole a sticker from my piano teacher when I was 7 because I rrrrreally wanted a sticker of a drum.” True story. When good ol' Judy was in the bathroom, I swiped the sticker and stuck it to my stomach for safe-keeping until I could go home and put it in my diary (which I still have…). The funny thing is that she gave me a sticker for being a good student like 5 seconds after she came back to the piano. (Hello guilt.) I considered confessing, but realized that would be the dumbest decision in the world. She didn’t really need that extra sticker anyway.
Ok, back to work...
On my drive to work today, I was listening to a wholesome little radio talk show I like to refer to as my saving grace each morning: John Jay and Rich. It gives me the opportunity to start my day off right: by laughing at (with) the stupid shit people do. My faaaavorite feature they do is on Thursday mornings called War of the Roses, but for some reason they changed it from 7:50 to 8:50 AM. OMG the first time I realized they switched times, I couldn't believe they'd rob my mornings of this little treasure. Every Thursday they have some toolbag call in and whine about how they think their boytoy/girlyfriend is cheating on them... blahblahblah. So after they listen to this pathetic sob story, the DJs call this person's bf/gf and offer them a dozen free roses to send to anyone. They alwaysalwaysalways describe the roses as "hot and steamy" and I seriously want to throw something at my radio every time they say this because who the eff refers to roses as hot and steamy? This falls into the same category as calling anything.... moist... Sicksicksick. Anyway. More often than not, the guy (usually a guy because let's be honest, only a girl could be psycho enough to call a radio station to find out if her douche bag bf is cheating on her) would name someone else and request to write something on the card like, "See you tonight...," "Hey, sexy thang," or my personal fave, "Break me off a piece." THEN comes the drama and ohhh mahh gawwwd it just warms my heart. The gf alllllways flips out, reinforcing the fact that bitchiscrazy, then threatens to tell all of her bf's deepest darkest secrets. One girl announced that she's a saint because she's put up with his herpes for 10 years only to find out he's been hooking up with some ho-bag behind his back. Ummm WTF. This is like trash TV, radio style, and I. Love. It.
On Wednesdays they have Confession Wednesday allll morning (thank God for that) and this morning's confessions were un-be-lieve-able. I'm pretty sure I wet my pants from a combo of laughter/shock/utter disgust. Examples:
1. Girl #1 admits that when she was 16 she slept with her stepdad while her mom was at the hospital having a baby… then continued the dirrrrtybird relationship with this guy until Momsy discovered it about a year later. Classy lady.
2. Girl #2 was an adjunct professor at a uni in New Mexico who had a Hottie McHotandsteamy student flirting with her. He kept pursuing and tempted her with Lady Gaga tickets who she’s apparently obsessed with, so she went to dinner with him. (Oh, and she also has a bf. What a moron.) Anyway, this kid says to her, “Ok, here’s what I want: An A in my class and you in the sack.” So what does she do? She goes for it, sleeps with him and gives him an A on his final, thinking he’s going to give her two Lady Gaga tickets in return. Instead, she gets: 1. Probation from the school for giving the kid an undeserved A, 2. Crabs, 3. No tickets. Sweet life.
3. Girl #3 (WHY ARE THEY ALL GIRLS?) calls in to confess that she had a threesome with her fiancé’s parents and has continued the relationship with her future mother-in-law. Oh, and she’s getting married on Monday. Awesommme.
4. Guy #1 used to work for a mortuary and sent the wrong infant’s body to the wrong family. Ok people, this is where I draw the line. I guess it’s against protocol to open an infant’s casket after it’s been nailed shut and shipped off, so no one ever found out… I wonder how many times this actually has happened…
5. Guy #2 has a 3-year-old child who he refers to as "the child" with a babymama stripper he slept with at his bachelor party. His wife doesn't know about any of it and actually jokingly said to him before the party, "Don't sleep with any strippers!" He's been "happily" married for three years now, doesn't pay child support on "the child," and is probably one of the biggest Donnies I hoped never existed. Hey reality, thanks for that nice slap in the face.
These confessions put anything I could ever say to shame. If I called in, I’d probably say something superawesome liiiike, “Hey, so my confession is that I stole a sticker from my piano teacher when I was 7 because I rrrrreally wanted a sticker of a drum.” True story. When good ol' Judy was in the bathroom, I swiped the sticker and stuck it to my stomach for safe-keeping until I could go home and put it in my diary (which I still have…). The funny thing is that she gave me a sticker for being a good student like 5 seconds after she came back to the piano. (Hello guilt.) I considered confessing, but realized that would be the dumbest decision in the world. She didn’t really need that extra sticker anyway.
Ok, back to work...
5/10/10
sauna. parte dos.
Tonight I found myself back in one of my new favorite places: The sauna at 24 Hr. Oh yeah, I totally went for Round 2. This time I tried out the Tiffany Plaza sauna because I've found the clientele to be a little more, well... classy, than the Alameda crew.
All day I've had this weird tired/sickish feeling so I thought to myself, what better way to fix a bad case of the Mondays (sweet Jesus, I actually just said that) than a little trip to the gym + sauna? I'm a genius. Sooo I burned my bunz for a while, then skipped off to the sauna like a little schoolgirl. I tried not to get my hopes up, but I could hardly contain my excitement. And let me tell you, I was anything but disappointed.
Not only was I yet again the only female attendant of the sauna partay, but I was the only shirt-wearer. I really need to just get over my fear of toplessness and dive right in one of these days. Or not, whatever. When I walked in, there was a ripped-because-he's-skinny guy doing some standing leg exercises. Why? Oh, I found out later that he was hell-bent on doing anything humanly possible to be the coolest kid on the block, including standing leg things that weren't turning anyone on but himself. I decided his name would be something rrreally awesome, like Stu.
About a minute after I planted my bunz in the corner and stretched out my stemz, what I can only describe as Mongo from Blazing Saddles came breezing into the partayyy. Yesssss. I have no freaking clue how I got this lucky. He, of course, was topless and sporting the greatest pair of manboobies the world has ever seen, but his dids couldn't even do justice to the size of his colossal belly. It was solid as a rock, too. Like Sumo wrestler business. I did everything I could not to stare, but it really was just too good to be true. So not only was Mongo the elephant in the room (literally and figuratively... obvi) but he felt the need to verbally announce his size to the rest of the party. I mean, to his credit, there were only about 6 inches between the ceiling and his head, but I was tempted to take a heads-down-hands-up-vote to see who actually cared.
So Stu and Mongo hit it off big time. In between flexing and pacing/jumping around the tiny 9x9 room (in which 3 other people including myself sat), they had one of the most unintelligent conversations I've had the pleasure of listening to in ohhhh about 15 years. Mongo, who I learned has both a legal background as well as has worked in the car business (to me, that just scrrreeeeaaaaammmmsss Denver Mafia), apparently was in onehelluva car accident in 2002 and is still recovering... uh huh... So here's the story (insert intermittent "mothafuckin's" and "shiiitduuude's" and "daaaaamnboooiiiii's" and overly dramatic hand gestures more often than you feel is necessary while you read this and you might have a tiny idea of what I witnessed): So Mongo was driving in his braaaand new (oh hell, now I can't remember the car) Tahoe (I think?), I mean braaand new, that shit just got deziiined, down the interstate. Someone in front of him lost a couch (yes, a couch) that apparently bounced right off their flatbed and landed in the middle of the road. Well shit dude, Mongo was going sooo faaast boiii that he swerved into oncoming traffic and "I'll-be-damned-if-I'm-gonna-take-someone-else's-life," so he somehow managed to swerve back "which is basically unheard of because like no one has the power to take control of two tons of vehicle dude." BUT I'll be damned if Mongo couldn't keep control of the car. Homiethatshit'sforreal. (Insert lots and lots of completely idiotic and forced-street-accent comments from Stuey such as, "Yeah dude das like straight metal rollin up in der." Wowowowowowow. I don't even know what that means. So Mongobongo effed up the whole inside of the cab during this little escapade, "yeah I like took off the mirrors and shit" (I'm not even kidding, he totally said that.) and eventually was ejected through the sunroof. OK waitwaitwaitwaitwaitwaitwait just ONE minute, I thought to myself as I did everything I could to hold in my giggles (and it wasn't easy). How ON EARTH could a man HIS SIZE fit through the opening of a sun roof? I'm not exaggerating here; I guarantee Mongo weighed in at a hefty 380+ and stood 6'10"ish feet tall. All I could picture was Tim Allen in The Santa Clause being sucked through that tiny chimney (don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about) as a reasonable explanation.
So anyway, after delivering his Oscar-worthy speech, Mongo said he was getting overheated, gave his bro StuStu a fist bump, and peaced the party. You can imagine my disappointment. I won't deny that I sneaked a peak at his butt to see if he was rockin the crack, but thankfully his pants managed to cover everything. So I stayed in there watching 1. Some middle-aged Indian man rub his legs and belly (Grossgrossgross. Didn't I make myself clear last time?), 2. Another middle-aged man do the awkward look-around when people weren't looking, and then 3. Until I was positive I was half-way melted and getting a little too dizzy for it to be fun anymore. So I once again bowed out gracefully, but definitely chalked up my second sauna adventure as a total success. I'm thinking about bringing in a box of Goobers and a Diet Coke for my next trip.
All day I've had this weird tired/sickish feeling so I thought to myself, what better way to fix a bad case of the Mondays (sweet Jesus, I actually just said that) than a little trip to the gym + sauna? I'm a genius. Sooo I burned my bunz for a while, then skipped off to the sauna like a little schoolgirl. I tried not to get my hopes up, but I could hardly contain my excitement. And let me tell you, I was anything but disappointed.
Not only was I yet again the only female attendant of the sauna partay, but I was the only shirt-wearer. I really need to just get over my fear of toplessness and dive right in one of these days. Or not, whatever. When I walked in, there was a ripped-because-he's-skinny guy doing some standing leg exercises. Why? Oh, I found out later that he was hell-bent on doing anything humanly possible to be the coolest kid on the block, including standing leg things that weren't turning anyone on but himself. I decided his name would be something rrreally awesome, like Stu.
About a minute after I planted my bunz in the corner and stretched out my stemz, what I can only describe as Mongo from Blazing Saddles came breezing into the partayyy. Yesssss. I have no freaking clue how I got this lucky. He, of course, was topless and sporting the greatest pair of manboobies the world has ever seen, but his dids couldn't even do justice to the size of his colossal belly. It was solid as a rock, too. Like Sumo wrestler business. I did everything I could not to stare, but it really was just too good to be true. So not only was Mongo the elephant in the room (literally and figuratively... obvi) but he felt the need to verbally announce his size to the rest of the party. I mean, to his credit, there were only about 6 inches between the ceiling and his head, but I was tempted to take a heads-down-hands-up-vote to see who actually cared.
So Stu and Mongo hit it off big time. In between flexing and pacing/jumping around the tiny 9x9 room (in which 3 other people including myself sat), they had one of the most unintelligent conversations I've had the pleasure of listening to in ohhhh about 15 years. Mongo, who I learned has both a legal background as well as has worked in the car business (to me, that just scrrreeeeaaaaammmmsss Denver Mafia), apparently was in onehelluva car accident in 2002 and is still recovering... uh huh... So here's the story (insert intermittent "mothafuckin's" and "shiiitduuude's" and "daaaaamnboooiiiii's" and overly dramatic hand gestures more often than you feel is necessary while you read this and you might have a tiny idea of what I witnessed): So Mongo was driving in his braaaand new (oh hell, now I can't remember the car) Tahoe (I think?), I mean braaand new, that shit just got deziiined, down the interstate. Someone in front of him lost a couch (yes, a couch) that apparently bounced right off their flatbed and landed in the middle of the road. Well shit dude, Mongo was going sooo faaast boiii that he swerved into oncoming traffic and "I'll-be-damned-if-I'm-gonna-take-someone-else's-life," so he somehow managed to swerve back "which is basically unheard of because like no one has the power to take control of two tons of vehicle dude." BUT I'll be damned if Mongo couldn't keep control of the car. Homiethatshit'sforreal. (Insert lots and lots of completely idiotic and forced-street-accent comments from Stuey such as, "Yeah dude das like straight metal rollin up in der." Wowowowowowow. I don't even know what that means. So Mongobongo effed up the whole inside of the cab during this little escapade, "yeah I like took off the mirrors and shit" (I'm not even kidding, he totally said that.) and eventually was ejected through the sunroof. OK waitwaitwaitwaitwaitwaitwait just ONE minute, I thought to myself as I did everything I could to hold in my giggles (and it wasn't easy). How ON EARTH could a man HIS SIZE fit through the opening of a sun roof? I'm not exaggerating here; I guarantee Mongo weighed in at a hefty 380+ and stood 6'10"ish feet tall. All I could picture was Tim Allen in The Santa Clause being sucked through that tiny chimney (don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about) as a reasonable explanation.
So anyway, after delivering his Oscar-worthy speech, Mongo said he was getting overheated, gave his bro StuStu a fist bump, and peaced the party. You can imagine my disappointment. I won't deny that I sneaked a peak at his butt to see if he was rockin the crack, but thankfully his pants managed to cover everything. So I stayed in there watching 1. Some middle-aged Indian man rub his legs and belly (Grossgrossgross. Didn't I make myself clear last time?), 2. Another middle-aged man do the awkward look-around when people weren't looking, and then 3. Until I was positive I was half-way melted and getting a little too dizzy for it to be fun anymore. So I once again bowed out gracefully, but definitely chalked up my second sauna adventure as a total success. I'm thinking about bringing in a box of Goobers and a Diet Coke for my next trip.
5/4/10
snaaaaacks.
I'm 100% convinced that everyone in the history of anyone has a work food fetish, with the exception of people in the sewage industry, armpit sniffers, and bovine artificial inseminators (no clue how I just came up with those...). I can only assume these people are gaunt skeletors because there's no way in hell you can have an appetite after sifting through pools of poo, let alone sniffing people's B.O. or hanging out behind a cow's ass all day. Just a thought. (But in all fairness, I admire anyone who does this kind of work--you're a better person than me.)
I digress... In my small opinion, collectively Americans' hypothalami are beginning to morph into obsessive dietary signalers, causing people to look more and more like fruit every day. Think about it... how many times a day do you see a pear walking around? I'm just waiting to see a Violet Beauregarde-esque figure rolling down the 16th Street Mall. Actually, strike that, I guarantee you'd never see something like that in Denver... but maybe, just mayyyybe in the South... aaaaand I just decided to move to Alabama.
So this brings me back to my original point: food at work. Literally every day since late winter, there has been a box of Girl Scout cookies in the kitchenette on my floor. I'm definitely not complaining about this because whoever invented the Girl Scout cookie phenomenon deserves a hug for his or her brilliant marketing scheme. These adorable little girls come to your doorstep wearing green vests and pigtails during the dead of late winter, which is undeniably the most depressing time of year. Who in their right mind wouldn't buy a box? Or two, or seven... and stash them in random places throughout their homes. Not only that, but there's a certain benign association attached to GS cookies that makes them irresistible, hence my firm belief that they don't belong in the office.
In the past week, I've taken note of every type of food that has graced the kitchen (don't judge): GS cookies, M&Ms/cashew mix, petit fours, breakfast burritos, Chunky (gross) Nestle bars, an entire ice cream cake, every type of mini candy bar imaginable, an apple, macaroons, more cookies, Jamba Juices, muffins, two jugs of OJ and a salad that literally could feed a family of 12.
You have got to be kidding me.
This morning I walked into my cube and what was sitting on my desk? Two brownies. So after I had looked around at a few other desks to see if anyone else was left a little surprise, I realized I was the only one. I would have been flattered with the exception that I prefer tulips to brownies. So I shoved them to the side, secretly bitter that someone in my department thinks that just because I'm the baby of the company means I eat like a child with an uncontrollable sweet tooth (God they already know me too well...). So about an hour later, my colleague came over to announce that there were burritos in the Food Cube. (Yeah, I didn't mention that part; we have an entire cube reserved for food. I should probably point out that for about my first 5 weeks of working there, I was too shy to actually go into the FC just in case someone walked by and saw me mowin down on some chips and guac. Unfortunately that little charade didn't last as I was slowly peer pressured into hanging out in the FC.) Then a few hours after the burrito announcement, I came back to my desk and what's sitting there? Oh, just a cookie from Paradise Bakery. Um. When it comes to Paradise cookies, I have the self control of a chubby 14-year-old girl (shaped like a muffin) whose best friends include Ben, Jerry, and Little Debbie.
The thing that's so funny to me about work food is that in all reality, it's pretty disgusting. There's always someone who will bring in a leftover that will be gone in under an hour. And why? Because for some reason, a little neuron fires in people's brains that says, "If you don't eat that cold bread pudding, stale pasta salad, or a Paradise cookie, you'll nevernevernever get a chance to eat it ever again." I blame Pavlov and his stupid bell-ringing dogs. This is getting out of control.
I digress... In my small opinion, collectively Americans' hypothalami are beginning to morph into obsessive dietary signalers, causing people to look more and more like fruit every day. Think about it... how many times a day do you see a pear walking around? I'm just waiting to see a Violet Beauregarde-esque figure rolling down the 16th Street Mall. Actually, strike that, I guarantee you'd never see something like that in Denver... but maybe, just mayyyybe in the South... aaaaand I just decided to move to Alabama.
So this brings me back to my original point: food at work. Literally every day since late winter, there has been a box of Girl Scout cookies in the kitchenette on my floor. I'm definitely not complaining about this because whoever invented the Girl Scout cookie phenomenon deserves a hug for his or her brilliant marketing scheme. These adorable little girls come to your doorstep wearing green vests and pigtails during the dead of late winter, which is undeniably the most depressing time of year. Who in their right mind wouldn't buy a box? Or two, or seven... and stash them in random places throughout their homes. Not only that, but there's a certain benign association attached to GS cookies that makes them irresistible, hence my firm belief that they don't belong in the office.
In the past week, I've taken note of every type of food that has graced the kitchen (don't judge): GS cookies, M&Ms/cashew mix, petit fours, breakfast burritos, Chunky (gross) Nestle bars, an entire ice cream cake, every type of mini candy bar imaginable, an apple, macaroons, more cookies, Jamba Juices, muffins, two jugs of OJ and a salad that literally could feed a family of 12.
You have got to be kidding me.
This morning I walked into my cube and what was sitting on my desk? Two brownies. So after I had looked around at a few other desks to see if anyone else was left a little surprise, I realized I was the only one. I would have been flattered with the exception that I prefer tulips to brownies. So I shoved them to the side, secretly bitter that someone in my department thinks that just because I'm the baby of the company means I eat like a child with an uncontrollable sweet tooth (God they already know me too well...). So about an hour later, my colleague came over to announce that there were burritos in the Food Cube. (Yeah, I didn't mention that part; we have an entire cube reserved for food. I should probably point out that for about my first 5 weeks of working there, I was too shy to actually go into the FC just in case someone walked by and saw me mowin down on some chips and guac. Unfortunately that little charade didn't last as I was slowly peer pressured into hanging out in the FC.) Then a few hours after the burrito announcement, I came back to my desk and what's sitting there? Oh, just a cookie from Paradise Bakery. Um. When it comes to Paradise cookies, I have the self control of a chubby 14-year-old girl (shaped like a muffin) whose best friends include Ben, Jerry, and Little Debbie.
The thing that's so funny to me about work food is that in all reality, it's pretty disgusting. There's always someone who will bring in a leftover that will be gone in under an hour. And why? Because for some reason, a little neuron fires in people's brains that says, "If you don't eat that cold bread pudding, stale pasta salad, or a Paradise cookie, you'll nevernevernever get a chance to eat it ever again." I blame Pavlov and his stupid bell-ringing dogs. This is getting out of control.
5/2/10
the sauna.
Today I wandered down to the 24 Hour Fitness on Alameda... at my own risk of course. Good news: it has yet to disappoint me and today was no exception.
After a nice little interval training workout (I've realized that in order to still consider myself a "runner" and not embarrass my cohort by being a semi-in-shape running poser, I need to buckle down and do some sprints...), I decided to try out the sauna. It really seemed like the right thing to do at the time and after my little experience, I'm planning on going in there at least 7 times a week. I'm beginning to think that the little phrase "Thank God for tiny miracles" doesn't really apply to babies; clearly, the genius who thought up that one was a frequent at the 24 Hour Fitness in his city.
So as I was sitting in there, an awkward two-arm's-length distance away from a hairy middle-aged man, I was trying to figure out proper sauna etiquette. Naturally I opted to curl up in the corner and closed my eyes, thinking I'd just shut out the world. I was enjoying a nice little film strip recap of my weekend, trying as hard as I could not to laugh at a certain little peep-show incident that will be burned into my brain for a solid 27 years, when in walks mano numero dos and where does he think is the most appropriate place to sit? In between me and numero uno of course... you could cut the tension with a sideways spoon. So there I am sitting next to two incredibly sweaty pot-bellied men. There was no way I was going to be able to focus on anything else, so I went back to my first thought: sauna etiquette. I came up with a little checklist of sauna essentials as I watched the fourth, and remarkably better-looking, member of our party walk in. But suffice it to say, he was showing way too much A crack for me to consider him remotely attractive. AND he had a chin strap, something I'm firmly against.
Need-to-knows when entering a sauna:
1. If you're a middle-aged, balding man with a balloon-sized gut, there's some unwritten rule about not wearing a shirt. (I wasn't about to whip off my top in front of these guys, so I guess I failed from the start.) This clearly lends ease to number two...
2. Sweaty boobies. These topless middle-agers were no exception to the rule. I actually think they made the rule themselves, considering their sweaty bizoobies not only outsized mine, but were hanging out there for the world to see. You don't know how close I was to giving one of them a tittytwister, then making a run for it. Maybe next time.
3. Awkwardly loud breathing, almost panting, but not quite. I know it's a little more difficult to breathe in a sauna, but really? I found it completely unnecessary for them to take in big gasps of air, then dramatically exhale like they were still working out. All that was doing was adding heat and hot breathy bits to the room and if there's anything I can't stand, it's a big face full of nasty breath.
4. The discrete look-around to check out who the other members of the sauna party are. The technique is pretty simple, but you have to be wary of your timing because you can't let the person you're gawking at catch you. Then what do you do? Creepily smile at them then look away? No no no. If someone catches you staring at A. their face, B. their junk, or C. their sweaty boobies, you immediately have to get up and leave. Standard procedure. If you don't like the rule, you don't have to participate in sauna parties; it's your call. God that sounded like something my 5th grade teacher would have said...
5. Time limits. OK so I'm innately competitive and think I have to win at everything. (Whether I actually end up winning or not is another story.) Naturally while I was sitting in there today, I decided that I had to outlast the first hombre who had been sitting there when I walked in. I realized about 15 minutes into this little game that he wasn't giving up, so I bit my lip and decided to tough it out... until 3 more people walked in and I got a little bit uncomfortable with the amount of half-naked togetherness going on. Besides, at that point I could feel myself reaching my heat limit for the day, so I decided to split. Point: Ugly (half)naked guy.
6. By no means should you ever start rubbing yourself... this goes for you, hombre dos, who felt the need to rub your sweaty belly as if that was accomplishing anything remotely sexy. I think the sound was what disturbed me the most. Vom. It.
But really... I can't wait to get back there for more. I think it's sufficient to say that I had way too much fun in there, but I really don't know how not to find things like this funny. And I don't plan on changing that anytime soon.
After a nice little interval training workout (I've realized that in order to still consider myself a "runner" and not embarrass my cohort by being a semi-in-shape running poser, I need to buckle down and do some sprints...), I decided to try out the sauna. It really seemed like the right thing to do at the time and after my little experience, I'm planning on going in there at least 7 times a week. I'm beginning to think that the little phrase "Thank God for tiny miracles" doesn't really apply to babies; clearly, the genius who thought up that one was a frequent at the 24 Hour Fitness in his city.
So as I was sitting in there, an awkward two-arm's-length distance away from a hairy middle-aged man, I was trying to figure out proper sauna etiquette. Naturally I opted to curl up in the corner and closed my eyes, thinking I'd just shut out the world. I was enjoying a nice little film strip recap of my weekend, trying as hard as I could not to laugh at a certain little peep-show incident that will be burned into my brain for a solid 27 years, when in walks mano numero dos and where does he think is the most appropriate place to sit? In between me and numero uno of course... you could cut the tension with a sideways spoon. So there I am sitting next to two incredibly sweaty pot-bellied men. There was no way I was going to be able to focus on anything else, so I went back to my first thought: sauna etiquette. I came up with a little checklist of sauna essentials as I watched the fourth, and remarkably better-looking, member of our party walk in. But suffice it to say, he was showing way too much A crack for me to consider him remotely attractive. AND he had a chin strap, something I'm firmly against.
Need-to-knows when entering a sauna:
1. If you're a middle-aged, balding man with a balloon-sized gut, there's some unwritten rule about not wearing a shirt. (I wasn't about to whip off my top in front of these guys, so I guess I failed from the start.) This clearly lends ease to number two...
2. Sweaty boobies. These topless middle-agers were no exception to the rule. I actually think they made the rule themselves, considering their sweaty bizoobies not only outsized mine, but were hanging out there for the world to see. You don't know how close I was to giving one of them a tittytwister, then making a run for it. Maybe next time.
3. Awkwardly loud breathing, almost panting, but not quite. I know it's a little more difficult to breathe in a sauna, but really? I found it completely unnecessary for them to take in big gasps of air, then dramatically exhale like they were still working out. All that was doing was adding heat and hot breathy bits to the room and if there's anything I can't stand, it's a big face full of nasty breath.
4. The discrete look-around to check out who the other members of the sauna party are. The technique is pretty simple, but you have to be wary of your timing because you can't let the person you're gawking at catch you. Then what do you do? Creepily smile at them then look away? No no no. If someone catches you staring at A. their face, B. their junk, or C. their sweaty boobies, you immediately have to get up and leave. Standard procedure. If you don't like the rule, you don't have to participate in sauna parties; it's your call. God that sounded like something my 5th grade teacher would have said...
5. Time limits. OK so I'm innately competitive and think I have to win at everything. (Whether I actually end up winning or not is another story.) Naturally while I was sitting in there today, I decided that I had to outlast the first hombre who had been sitting there when I walked in. I realized about 15 minutes into this little game that he wasn't giving up, so I bit my lip and decided to tough it out... until 3 more people walked in and I got a little bit uncomfortable with the amount of half-naked togetherness going on. Besides, at that point I could feel myself reaching my heat limit for the day, so I decided to split. Point: Ugly (half)naked guy.
6. By no means should you ever start rubbing yourself... this goes for you, hombre dos, who felt the need to rub your sweaty belly as if that was accomplishing anything remotely sexy. I think the sound was what disturbed me the most. Vom. It.
But really... I can't wait to get back there for more. I think it's sufficient to say that I had way too much fun in there, but I really don't know how not to find things like this funny. And I don't plan on changing that anytime soon.
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