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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

denva.

Aside from the fact that this is arguably the greatest city on Earth and everybody (and their dog... literally, because you're truly not a Denverite without a dog. I'm still trying to get accepted based on my little cat weakness...) should move here, I only have one complaint, then I'll move on. Yesterday, April 23, 2010, it SNOWED. Uh huh, not just like a little flake here and there like a semi-normal springtime flurry, but it was full-on white-out business. Double U tee eff. I know I know, I moved to the mountains and am supposed to just expect this BS, but really? They say April showerzzz for a reason... to be cute about rainstorms, not snowstorms. With that being said, it took about 30 minutes for the sun to retaliate and Denver was back on track with perfection. Thank you, baby Jesus. My office actually closed yesterday at 2:00, but being the staunch over achiever that occasionally I am (that was a little oxymoronic, but you get my point), I stayed until 5:30 like a good little HR/Risk Coordinator would/should. I talked to a few of the VPs throughout that time who told me to go home, but I feel like I earned some real street cred when I told them that I had to stay to get some top secret things done for my superimportant job. Clearly I should have just said, "You're more than welcome to go home, Sir, I'll gladly assume your duties. As you should know, I was born to sit behind a mahogany desk surrounded by statues and original works of art." Because let's be real here, as the HR Ball Girl, I'm just riding the fence (or ball) between admin and exec. I just need the wind to start blowing the right direction. Somebody get this girl a secretary.

So today I woke up with a nice little hangover (thank you, Wash Park Tavern and new friends who drink as fast as I do) and reluctantly drove down to the 24 Hr Fitness on Alameda to burn off the BL Limes (mmmbeer). I've been told before that this is the 24 Hr that is typically thought of as the gateway gym to other 24 Hrs... i.e. people don't stay there for a reason. Wellwellwell, I do all that I can to avoid this gym in particular for a few reasons, but decided to go anyway because I didn't feel like running outside in case I had to hurl in a few bushes. Anyway, my reasons are:

1. When you walk in, you literally have to swim through a moist (hate that word) cloud of human sweat, body heat and bad breath... even on the hottest day of the year I guarantee their windows will still be dripping with sweaty condensation. Delicious...

2. I've never heard so many grunts and arrrrggggghhhhhs and panting in my life. This actually is incentive for me to go there because I get a week's worth of giggling in. Truly I don't think there's any other way to react to a grunter than to look him in the eye, then turn my head and laugh. If anyone else has a better strategy, I'm all ears...

3. Short shorts. No no we're not talking about Nair Short Shorts... I'm talking about shortmanshorts. They're typically paired with a nice tiny tank to show off their bulging biceps, triceps, abs (or more often, beer bellies), delts and lats, which all go hand-in-hand with a raunchy display of manthighs, bird legs, or thunderous calves. I was on the rowing machine a few weeks ago and a man sat down on the machine next to me who was wearing the world's shortest shorts and a baby tee. This guy was just begging for a slapintheface, but clearly would have preferred a nice little booty love tap if you know what I mean. I would have erred with the former in his case. Next thing I know, he's mounting the machine, putting his feet in the stirrups and it's off to the races... I'll let your imagination chew on that one (he actually strongly resembled the villain in Charlie's Angels who pulls Lucy Liu's hair out and smells it... ew). I think I nearly bit a hole through my lip trying not to smile. I only lasted about 3 more minutes before I had to switch machines. I'd be a terrible poker player.

4. I've been told some, uh, "men's locker room stories" that I'd rather have remained naive about. That's all I feel comfortable saying about that.

5. I guarantee only 20% of the people in there have washed their hands. And Laaawwwd only knows where those hands have been (refer to #4 if you're at a loss for ideas on that one).

6. It's the most stereotypical mating ground I've ever stepped foot into. Some days I intentionally look like hell to see what kind of looks I will (or won't) get. This game is clearly the little psychologist in me, but it's super fun and I highly recommend it. What I just luuurrrv is seeing people walk in who you know just spent at least an hour in preps to look their best (both men and women). Call me crazy, but when I go to a gym the two last things I'm interested in doing are hitting on someone or being hit on, mostly because I'm a Stage 14 sweater. Throw this girl on a freaking ab machine and I'll be dripping after 30 seconds... don't even get me started on treadmillz and ellipticalz. Maybe I should start requesting my own private workout facility. Wow, Melissa, this is really attractive...

Moving on... After my workout, I ran home to shower and change, then headed off to my new (and favorite) hair salon for an appointment with Tiffany. Tiff and I quickly became besties and let me tell you... girlfriend knows how to do some hurr. Right now I feel like a real life rockstar, which anyone who knows me even a little bit can tell you that that's my secret life goal. I still have time... maybe I'll do karaoke tonight and will get discovered... omigod tomorrow I could be the next Joan Jett. Too bad I verrrrry rarely allow myself to do karaoke.

And now I'm sitting in Peet's Coffee Shop in Cherry Creek, freezing my tail feathers off under an air vent as I'm looking outside and wondering why I'm not soaking up some Vitamin D right now. Even though it snowed yesterday, the sun decided to get its sh*t together today and is gracing us with its presence. Once again, thank you baby Jesus.

The things people talk about in coffee shops are way too funny for real life. Sure, sir, I'd love to hear about your recent weight gain and prostate health. Oh, and yeah girl, you totally should not have slept with him and that other girl really izzz such a ho. And ohhhh maaaahhhhh gaaawwwwddd congratulations you two! Let me see the raaang! Girrrrl thas a goood lookin' rock! Mmmhmm yo man's got some coin. (From one white girl to another, it's only appropriate to talk like that in certain situations because as we all know, white girls are expected to be uptight/proper/well-spoken... well, we didn't all get that memo, did we?)

Tonight I'm going to Fort Collins and for the record, good behavior is not allowed. Bring. It. On.