My Badge, My Baby

Wanna know what didn't help my foul mood this morning? Finding out at a few minutes before 6am that my badge no longer granted me access to my building at work. Shivering in the predawn cold, I pressed the button to call security and they announced they would send someone over.

I braced myself for a long wait in the cold, but just then saw a lady coming in from the garage. With a badge! So she let herself in, and I followed her, showing her that mine didn't work. Being the honest Jane that I am, I waited in the lobby until I saw the security-mobile pull up outside the building, then went out to meet him. He let me in again and informed me that my badge had expired.

Expired? Why? Had I been fired? I still had to open the gym in a few minutes. I'm a contractor, but I'm not personally on contract, so there's no reason as to why my badge should have expired. I didn't really care too much, I just asked him to fix it and let me be on my way. But instead, he took my badge and told me he has to keep it.

I have a strange attachment to certain things. When I was in high school, I wore an old rope around my wrist, and a rusty ring on my finger- both of which held a tag on to the case of an instrument I had unloaded at work in the music store. The instrument had no sentimental value to me, but for some reason, the rope and ring that held the tag on it did. I wore both for several years. Didn't even take them off to shower.

OK so I'm weird like that. But I had become strangely attached to my badge. It has a weird bend in it, and the brand sticker from an apple (the fruit, not the computer) permanently attached to it.

So I couldn't believe he was taking my badge away. And telling me that i had to contact my supervisor so that I could get a new one. A new one? But I like MINE. I gave him attitude but it didn't work so I begrudgingly followed him down to the fitness center and let him let me in.

Of course, the first thing I did when I got in was send a desperate email to my buddy in security (remember 143?) and he hooked me up and told me I could pick up my baby in the security office.

So I did, and that ended that.

And What's More

is that I'm stuck at work for another 2 hours and this guy is in here who has been nursing the same freaking annoying cough for the past 3 weeks. At least. It's not an erratic cough. In fact, I've been timing it, and he coughs one time every 2-7 seconds. Just one time. Then again 2 seconds later. Then again maybe 6 seconds later.

You get the picture.

I'm all for working out when you have a cold, if you feel up to it. But to cough just once every 2-7 seconds is quite possibly THE MOST IRRITATING THING IN THE UNIVERSE. Especially when you do it in a gym. Where you really don't have to be.

And the person who is stuck listening to you and timing you doesn't have the option of putting on headphones and drowning the sound out. For the entire 2-hour duration of your workout.

And when you don't cover your mouth.

Can't you just stop for a minute, take a deep breath and get all the coughing out of the way so I don't have to hear it for a whole minute? Is that possible?

And why do you have this annoying cough for so long? It almost sounds like he's trying to suppress it, but can't help it and coughs. DON'T SUPPRESS IT! Get it out of your system!

When I make popcorn in the microwave, the instructions say to stop it when there are 3 seconds between pops. So when it gets close to when it should be ending, I start counting seconds between pops to see if I can get to 3.

If this guy were popcorn, he'd still not be ready. He's on the treadmill now, and coughing once every 1.5 seconds. This is absolutely ridiculous. Since he's been here and I started playing the popcorn game, I have yet to reach 10.

So, with all this irritating, annoying crap going on in my life right now, I'd be willing to bet there will be another post in about an hour or so about The Spawn.

Can't wait.

Oh Yeah,

I forgot to mention in my previous post about why I am in such a bad mood all the time these days that I am just starting to enter the "getting over" phase of a horrible cough that was most likely bronchitis. SB had bronchitis but somehow I never made it to the doctor so I can only assume that we had/have the same thing. Although her pediatrician did look into my ears and down my throat. But he didn't say anything so I guess it wasn't too bad.

The worst of it occurred on Christmas, and the days surrounding it. But I'm still coughing a godawful amount, and it's aggravated when I do stupid things required by my job, like teaching step classes.

Anyway, I was drinking tons of orange juice over the holidays, which is unusual for me. And as a result of all the extra acid, I now have a canker sore in my mouth. Right in the front, on that skinny little bridge where the lip attaches to the gums. So, needless to say, that hurts like a mother.

Bmore Bitch

Warning: If you don't want to spend the next few minutes reading a purely selfish and one-sided bitch session written by someone in an incredibly foul mood, do NOT read on.

I'm very pissy right now. It seems that every year, no matter how deeply rooted into the Christmas Spirit I am, people turn into total jerkish morons around this time. Maybe it's from the stress of getting holiday meals together or finding the perfect gift for 73 people at the same time as everyone else and his 47 crackhead uncles are trying to do the exact same thing, I don't know. But people get really mean around this time. I've always said, usually in a brilliantly poetic and insightful way, that people individually are wonderful; people en masse are jerks. This theory proves to be the understatement of the year around this time. And all the jerks seem to be finding me lately.

From the morons who stole our string of 8" lighted plastic Santas and our little 3' plastic Frosty out of our own front yard to the jerkwad who decided to make a s-l-o-w left turn out of a driveway, beginning the procedure just as I was approaching, completely taking away my right-of-way, almost causing an accident that I was completely willing to get into, given the state of mind I'm currently in, people are pissing the hell out of me left and right.

I brought SB to the mall today because I needed a calendar, specifically one of those "Mommy" ones with the little pocket in the front to hold coupons and invitations and stuff. As we were getting onto the escalator, SB froze and refused to jump up onto it. I had her hand, and was calmly counting to three, when I would pull her forward with me. If she thinks about it too much, it stresses her out. She needs to just go for it. I was just between 2 and 3 when some little Asian woman plunged ahead of us with her toddler son. She counted to three - much faster than I did - and jumped right in front of us. Let me reiterate. I wasn't dawdling. I wasn't even saying "One mississippi, Two mississippi..." I was going fast. But apparently this lady was in so much of a rush that she needed to elbow her way in front of a freaking 3-year old who was a little intimidated by the escalator. So we get on a step and the woman turns around and smiles at me like what she did was the cutest thing ever. I glared. I don't do it much, but when I want to, I can glare a bitch down.

SB was uncharacteristically well-behaved at the mall, so when, as we were leaving, she announced that she was hungry, I agreed to get her a meal from Chik Fila. So we stood in line. As we were standing in line, the one line suddenly became 2 and 2 people who were not there when I entered the line were suddenly in front of me. I am sooooo non-confrontational so I just figured that no one really realized what was happening. My turn came and an older lady walked up to the register. As she walked up, she glanced at me and paused. Like she wasn't sure if she was ahead of me. Being the nice moron that I am, I explained to her that I wasn't sure if there was one line or two. She shrugged and went to the register and placed her order. Instead of letting the nice girl with the kid WHO HAD BEEN IN LINE BEFORE SHE EVEN WALKED UP go ahead of her. Nice.

So I waited behind the grandmother with the cell phone attached to her ear. After a few moments, it became apparent to me that I wasn't going to get food. By now 4 people had somehow gotten their meals before me, who walked up after I entered the line. Irritated, I left. Which, of course, set off SB and we exited the mall with her face crumpled, lower lip sticking out, and screaming "I'm hungry." Nice.

I felt horrible but I just couldn't stand it anymore. She announced on the way home that she wanted McDonald's so I was more than happy to not get Chik Fila on the way home. I ordered her 4-piece nugget meal and got home to find that they neglected to include the nuggets.

So that's how my life's been lately. Just incident like that after incident. But it's not just strangers who are getting on my last nerves. My friends are turning into annoying barnacle heads too.

One friend texts me every single freaking week with the same text. Hi. How's everything? It sounds innocent enough, but believe me, it gets old, fast. Like he's checking in on me. What am I, his mom? And who says hi on a text message? Can't he just trust that if there's something worth saying to him, I'll let him know?

And the lady whose son I teach piano lessons to, she's been annoying me too. I'm telling you, I've been walking around with a freaking rain cloud right over me. Every week, I hear "I'm so tired." Tired? She works 8-4, Monday-Friday. She has one son, who is 15. He recently joined the swimming team at school, before then he had no extracurricular activities that I was aware of except baseball in the summer. My friend is not a member of any club, doesn't do any volunteer work, and doesn't even work out consistenty. Her social life isn't crazy. What the F is making her so stressed out and tired all the time? I can't tell you how irritating it is to hear that when you're the mother of a "high maintenance" newborn who doesn't sleep for more than 20 minutes at a time while finishing up your graduate degree and waking up at 6am every morning to work out before work. Or now getting up at 4am. Arrrrgh!

And she didn't show up for her lesson this weekend, but called 3 hours later to cancel. Nice.

And finally, my mother, who never fails to irritate the crap out of me, no matter what kind of a mood I'm in, tops it all off with the following conversation yesterday:

TB: You're going to be a grandmother again, BM's pregnant.

First she stared at me for about 2 minutes as if I had spoken to her in Chinese.

Mom: Congratulations...I guess.

Me: You guess?

Mom: Well aren't your hands full right now? I thought you were going to wait longer.

Me: SB's going to turn 4 one month after this baby's born and TB is already 41. How much longer did you think we should wait?

Mom: Well...I don't want you to tell me the sex until it's born.

Me: Well we're finding out. I won't tell you but I can't guarantee you won't find that out.

Mom: When are you due?

Me: Mid-August.

Mom: Well just make sure she's not born on the 1st, 5th, or 11th. (Birthdays of her, her sister, and my brother, respectively).

Me: I'm not sure I'll have much say in that.

Mom: If she's born at the end of August, she'll be a Virgo(making a yucky face). You don't need a Virgo in your house. (My father's a Virgo, they are divorced. Probably because of conversations similar to this one.)

Me: I said mid-August. But again, I probably won't have much say in that.

Mom: OK good. Make sure she's a Leo.

I just can't get a break. OK enough ranting for now. Please know that the whole pregnancy thing is very unofficial and has yet to be confirmed with an ultrasound. So it's still hush-hush. So if you don't want to be the subject of a future rant on this blog, please keep that information to yourself.

Update on The Spawn

Because I know you're just as fascinated with her, in a vulgar, disgusted kind of way, as I am. Like watching a car wreck.

So it's 2 days before Christmas. There are 2 people in the fitness center right now. And her. She came in a little while ago and changed into her workout clothes. No text messages today. Then she hovered by the ellipticals for a bit, and I was worried that she was going to park her wide fanny on the one just next to my desk. Luckily she either gave up before she started, or figured out she probably doesn't have the coordination or intelligence required to work the elliptical machine, because she walked away from it.

She headed towards the back door, and parked herself next to the back extension machine. I turned away, since this is where I found her doing her pelvic thrusts last time, and I didn't want to expose myself to that wretchedness again. But later, when I glanced over, I noticed that she had her shoes off and she was doing some sort of nothing, standing in front of the extension machine. And by "nothing" I mean nothing. She was just standing there in her stinky old socks.

Good thing she came here and changed into workout clothes for this!

So after she did her required number of sets and reps of nothing, she hobbled back over to the bench near the locker room and took TEN MINUTES (yes, I was counting) to put her shoes back on.

And now she's on the rower.

She's also the only one here in the center.

I love my job I love my job I love my job.

Good thing she can only last about 3.5 minutes on the rower. The way I see it, I'm outta here at 7:05, even with her lallygagging. (It's 6:57 now).

The Lone Dancing Peppermint

SB's Christmas dance recital was on Sunday. The entire studio, teachers included, were doing a condensed version of The Nutcracker. It was no New York City Ballet, but it was definitely an adorable show, and the girls obviously worked very hard on their performances.

The show was sold out. We're even lucky we got 2 tickets for TB and myself. Probably better that we couldn't drag the Grandmas along with us, because it turned out to be a long day. Dress rehearsal started at 11:45 and the show started at 2. In between, we weren't allowed to go to the stage area so it was a lot of sitting around for us, in between potty breaks. Which were of annoying frequency.

Finally, at a few minutes before 2 we filed into the auditorium. We chose seats in the third row back, a few seats down from a woman who was sitting by herself, but had her purse on the seat 2 seats down, obviously saving it for someone. Who didn't arrive by the time the show started.

The auditorium turned dark and the show began. Clara danced, the Nutcracker pranced, and lots of skinny girls in costumes that were falling apart around them shuffled around. Between 2 scenes, a voice boomed out over the loudspeaker informing us that a) certain illegally parked cars were being towed and b) there were lots of people standing in the back, so could everyone please move into any empty seats toward the center of the row so the extra people could take the aisle seats with minimal distraction.

I started to move in next to the woman, whose company never showed up, and she told me she was saving the seats. I told her I knew that but I was just following orders. She said her friend was coming down the aisle just now. I paused and looked at the aisle to see how close she was, and didn't see anyone. Seriously? Was she lying that blatantly? I moved over into the seat and cut off her protests, saying that they asked us to move in so the latecomers could take the aisle seats and not cause any disturbances, which I was already doing. Personally, I avoid confrontation at all costs, and this was way out of character for me. I was terrified that the next thing I'd see was her purse flying through the air at my face. But luckily she gave up.

But this is also the woman who decided it was important that she take a phone call in the middle of the show. Right there at her seat. Nice.

Anyway, finally, it was SB's turn. The stage was dark as they brought the little ones onto the stage. You could see just the shadows of 2 little girls in tutus being led onto the stage. The audience was quiet, and you heard a little voice say "Mommy?" The entire audience did a collective "Awwwwww..." and both little girls ventured to the edge of the stage to see where that noise came from.

The audience gasped and the entire front row leaped up and raced to the stage in case one of these little tots should happen to forget that the stage ended and stepped off into the air. The girls giggled and stared down off the stage.

The lights came on and they turned around to stand in the center of the stage. They were SB and Anna (the floor licker, and the one who asked for Mommy). Jordan was led onto stage just then, by her mother. She was crying and clutching a teddy bear. The audience applauded her and the music began.

SB jumped to life. She jumped out, jumped in, jumped up and jumped down. She even did the kicks, that she kept forgetting before. She did the whole routine, albeit a crude version. I was so proud.

Anna stood there for a moment, then wandered off to stage left to climb some oversized gifts that were there for decoration. And by "climb" I mean plaster herself to the sides until a stage mother came to pry her off and carry her offstage.

Jordan stood in the center of the stage, hugging her teddy bear and bawling her eyes out, leaving all the dancing to SB.

The big girls danced around them, then they clustered around SB and pranced in their little circle, then ran off stage. I had tears in my eyes from laughing so hard. TB got the whole thing on video, and if I can figure out a way to get it onto my computer, I'll upload it here. But for now you'll have to settle for the incredibly adorable photo of SB dancing and Jordan crying.

Bmore Bookworm: Yoga & Mental Illness

One of my all-time favorite books ever is Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Even though I buy all my books (or used to until my husband threatened that we'd have to move in with my mom if I continued to spend obscene amounts of money at Barnes and Noble and Borders), it's one of the precious few that I've actually read more than once.

If you were to drop my well-worn copy (which was, of course, new when I got it) onto the floor, it would automatically open up to my favorite scene/chapter. It's the one that begins "There's a Monopoly game going on in the day room. They've been at it for three days..." The reason I love that chapter so much is because it just shows the characters being themselves, and I always get a good laugh out of it-
"Not that one, you crazy bastard; that's not my piece, that's my house."
"It's the same color."
"What's this little house doing on the Electric Company?"
"That's a power station."
"Martini, those ain't the dice you're shaking--"
"Let him be; what's the difference?"
"Those are a couple of houses!"
"Faw. And Martini rolls a big, let me see, a big nineteen. Good goin', Mart; that puts you- Where's your piece, buddy?"
"He had it in his mouth, McMurphy. Excellent. That's two moves over the second and third bicuspid, four moves to the board...."

And so on. Part of the reason I hated the movie so much, despite the rave reviews about it along with Jack Nicholson, was because that little piece of awesomeness was left out.

Anyway.

I'll admit that I have a sick fascination with what goes on inside a mental institution. And when I saw a book in the (barf) library that boasted being about not only a mental institution, but one for the criminally insane, I was sold. So I checked out The Treatment & The Cure by Peter Kocan. The book was very similar to Cuckoo's Nest, except the character development wasn't quite as in-depth and there wasn't much of an actual story line/plot. It was basically a work of fiction, told in second person (how weird is that?) that chronicled an inmate's journey through different wards of an Australian mental hospital. He/You started in MAX, then gets transferred to Ward 6, Ward 24, and finally REHAB.

You watch fellow patients undergo shock treatments, suffer at the hands of bullying "screws" (nurses) and see the effects of overmedication.

His/Your crime is never really described. During his/your stay at the hospital he/you take(s) up an interest in poetry and writing, and the story ends with a 15-page poem that he/you wrote winning the National Poetry Prize.

It was an interesting read, and I finished it in a day, which says something good about the book. BUT the best part? I finished it, then turned to the last page, which had the author's brief bio. Which was the most shocking part of the entire book. Which was this:

Peter Kocan was born in Australia in 1947. His failed attempt to assassinate federal opposition leader Arthur Calwell in 1966 saw him sentence to life imprisonment. Kocan was later transferred from Sydney's infamous Long Bay jail to Morisset hospital for the criminally insane. His first books of poetry were published while he was at Morriset. His novel Fresh Fields candidly describes experiences leading up to the act of violence that resulted in his incarceration. He has twice been awarded the Premier's Award for Fiction.

Wow. So now I'm guessing that a large part of this was based on his actual experiences and feelings. I wish I had known that from the start. Not the most riveting book I've ever read, but it gives you a great, albeit creepy, insight into what life must be like for the "criminally insane" although he/you appeared far from insane.

Before this, I finished another (barf) library book called The Yoga Teacher by Alexandra Gray. This book, although drab at times, told the story of a pharmaceutical company rep who gave up all the material things her posh salary afforded her to pursue life as a yoga teacher. I'm a huge fan of doing what you like, and the book was definitely a motivator to firmly and deeply believe in, and devote as much as you can to your career.

So far, these library books have been ok. Maybe the library's not all bad. Barf.

The Spawn...Again

I'm sure that by now I don't have to remind you who the evil Spawn of Satan is who frequents my gym late late late in the evening. And by "frequents" I mean shows up every now and then solely to make my life miserable. We have determined that she is bipolar, because when she's not making snappy comments about clocks being pasted to her forehead (which is still, in my opinion, one of the stupidest remarks I have heard come out of the mouth of an adult) and getting upset that we have altered hours around holidays, she's trying to be our bff.

I ran into her on the way to the cafeteria to get a fat fajita burrito with sour cream and cheese outside the gym the other day, and of course, she was acting all sweet and telling me how the doctor didn't mention that a broken ankle could have possible affected her already existing arthritis. Which probably existed solely due to the undue pressure put on her joints by her excessive weight and repulsive personality.

So I have a funny feeling that a) she is heavily medicated or b) she is in a much worse mood today, because I am now alone with her in the gym, and I should be so lucky that she might actually leave on time, thus allowing ME to leave on time. It just doesn't work out that way for me.

So she waddled in around 7ish and retreated to the locker room. I went back there to dump some towels in the laundry bin, remembering much too late that she was back there, and that I might be forced to seeing her naked. I was thinking horrible thoughts about Medusa, and trying desperately to remember if there was any way to return to normal after being turned into stone as I rounded the corner into the ladies' locker room, but luckily (or not, depending how you look at it) she was fully dressed, sitting on the bench, texting someone on her phone. Actually, since I find it impossible to believe that she has any friends to text, she was probably composing her shopping list. Or taking a photo of her feet, since she's still probably getting used to having toes instead of claws.

So on the one hand, I was very thankful that I didn't have to be exposed to what lies beneath her clothing. On the other hand, she's the only FREAKING PERSON IN HERE, and the only thing standing between me and GOING HOME so WHY THE F IS SHE SITTING IN THE LOCKER ROOM, TEXTING NONEXISTENT PEOPLE, WHEN SHE DOESN'T EVEN GET PHONE SERVICE IN THE GYM??

How do I know that she doesn't get service, you ask? Because 2 minutes later, she hobbles outside with her phone, then hobbles back into the locker room before emerging to begin her "workout". And by "workout" I mean ANNOYING THE CRAP OUT OF ME BY MERELY EXISTING IN THE GENERAL VICINITY OF MY FITNESS CENTER.

So now that she's sufficiently wasted much more time than she needs to, she's making her way down the circuit strength machines. At first I wasn't too concerned because her maximum endurance is, oh, about 3 minutes. But right now she's just sitting on the machines for about 2 minutes before and after each exercise, evilly squeezing every second out of me, and I know I'm going to get another rude comment when I politely try to inform her that we close at the posted time.

Waxing Poetic

Because I didn't really know what else to think about on my way to work today, I was challenging myself to remember the words to a poem I wrote for a project in high school about my infatuation with Rockapella.

So, in keeping with the holiday spirit, since you have all been good little boys and girls, I present to you my brilliant poem, along with another one I wrote in college about staphylococcus aureus.

Flaunt the Fabulous Four

I was assigned to create a poemic lyr,
and I guess it would behoove me to do it,
for it's due Wednesday morning, no later, I fear.
So I'm forcing myself to hop to it.

Today's lyric subject of vast contemplation
is one I deliriously adore.
It's about my dangerously lethal infatuation
with a group we'll call the Fabulous Four.

Now there's one tiny problem, a miniature disaster
that interferes with my position as fan.
See- while the delicately fine art of singing they've mastered,
they're only really famous in Japan.

So to all you stricken carriers of the Fabulous Four plague,
Don't hide your contagious disease.
Volunteer information and don't you be vague,
your admiration must never ever cease.

Wear their delirium like badges of honor-
stand tall, walk proud with iron jaw.
Make others think versus you they're a goner.
Be uplifted by their spiritual bra.

And if any pathetic naysayers just happen to poopoo
your instrumentless idolization insanity,
don't stoop to their crustacean level of doodoo,
use it as kindle for your fire of vanity.

Simply smile and wax poetic on the subject of your heroes
(Try to rub it in like salt to a scrape).
And if that doesn't work then step squarely on their toes
and run away cackling maniacally at your clever escape.

You know that these guys pummel major wooly mammoth butt.
So don't be a bitter old fella.
Let out your emotions, don't you dare keep them shut
and yell mercifully out, "Do It, ROCKAPELLA!"

------------------------------------------------------------

Staph Attack

Gather ‘round and hear this, ye children so fair
For a tale so much older than time.
Listen closely to me , for your health, if you dare-
I’ll try my best to keep tempo and rhyme.

There lives deep inside your inner nasal wall
An evil Staphylococcus aureus.
And, trust me, there’s nothing like it at all
In any dictionary or thesaurus.

It starts out innocently as a child,
Snuggled contentedly inside your schnoz.
But it soon grows restless, mean and wild,
Struggling to escape its resident laws.

It patiently awaits the perfect chance,
A ride that will bring it down south.
A lone finger enters- oh, see the Staph dance!
As it is carried straight into the mouth!

Staph loves the moist, such a Heavenly clime,
He is giddy and brimming with glee.
The finger brings more and more every time,
Our Staph is in good company.

Now, children don’t fear, what I tell you is true
For it happens both near and afar.
What comes next is quite graphic, so listen- please do!
Or you can go wait in the car.

They make their way down to the stomach and such,
Stopping several times on the way.
The lungs, liver, spleen- Oh, this is too much!
But the Staph, how they love to play!

At every pit stop, they leave something behind-
A pathogenic trail of crumbs.
An abscess filled with pus and such kind,
This can’t be cured with no Tums!

They infect every corner, every small nook and cranny,
Causing unpleasantnesses like endocarditis.
You won’t have the strength to get off of your fanny
Once you’re infected with septic arthritis.

But it can do lots more harm, if you don’t take some care-
You can end up with pneumonia or worse.
Just try to fight it, if you bother to dare,
Make every effort to get rid of this curse!

It’s got leukocidin and toxins, artillery galore
To destroy your body’s defense.
Toxic Shock Syndrome will even the score,
So wasting your time? It just doesn’t make sense.

Use all the strength your feeble body can muster,
The Staph just won’t leave you alone.
You simply cannot get rid of that mean grape-like cluster,
But only see every day how it’s grown.

You can use special soap, the antistaphylococcal kind,
And paint yourself white with the cream.
Even with antibiotics, the Staph never mind,
Though with time, they’re not bad as they seemed.

So, now heed my lesson, you know where Staph grows,
Don’t cause me to repeat it.
You know it’s not polite to pick at your nose,
And certainly, don’t ever eat it!

She Works Hard for the Money

My job, like many others, requires active certifications to attest for my knowledge and ability in the fitness field. These certifications, like many others, are not cheap, and require a certain number of Continuing Education credits each year or two. If the CEC's aren't accrued, then the certification expires, and I have to shell out even more money to re-certify.

Obviously, I don't like this.

I understand that cutting-edge is money in my field. What good am I if I'm giving the same old generic fitness advice that was given back in the 1950's? But I feel that my career would take care of my lack of knowledge by itself- I don't need certifications to do that for me. For example, the new guidelines for cardio exercise stress intervals and high intensity (in terms of increased levels of fitness and weight loss- not achieving or maintaining general heart health). If my exercise prescriptions (which don't exist now because we don't offer personal training where I currently work) went off the old-school low intensity, longer duration for the generally healty, based on the premise of the much heard about "fat burning zone", then I would lose clients and eventually lose enough money that I would have to either reevaluate my training methods based on more current research, or find a different career. Or starve to death.

Bottom line? I think CEC's are useless as a requirement. That being said, I am open to learning new things, and I do appreciate the motivation that they can sometimes provide. I just don't like that they're required and that they are so expensive. Through my certifications, I am lucky in that I have to renew them every other year, on alternating years. And the courses I have to take can count towards both of my certifications.

So my morning today was spent reading about Women, Exercise & Metabolism and Nutrition & Weight Control. Which are both topics with which I would hope any fitness professional with any sort of certification or education would already be very familiar. Each cost me $20. So now I'm $40 poorer for the reassurance that I know what I'm supposed to know, and already did.

Swing Baby, Swing!

When I was in college, I started taking private ballroom dance lessons. To this day I'm not quite sure how I could afford them, since I was far from wealthy, and I was living off a diet of potato roll and mayo sandwiches and noodles with ketchup. But somehow, I scraped up the $52 per week, strapped on my shoes and met Dimitri in the upstairs room at Towson Dance Studio every week so he could teach me how to dance.

I LOVED it. My favorites were the Cha-cha and Swing. He always started with the same song for swing, and as soon as I recognized those first few notes, a huge goofy smile would light up my entire face, and stay plastered there for the duration of the session.

I was good at it, too. Dimitri said I had potential. And I believed him. I learned the entire first syllabus, and then I had to stop because life in general got in the way. School got tough, or work became demanding or money turned scarce. Some stupid reason.

Shortly after I finished college, I discovered I did not want to do desk work. I had taken a job for a non-profit company, where my title and pay was "administrative assistant" but my actual work was "web page and database administrator." It was a small company, and the staff consisted of myself and 2 other ladies- both significantly older than me, and both total wenches.

It took almost a year, but I finally realized that they were taking complete advantage of my young naivety, and were treating me like crap. So I quit. And I followed my heart and applied to become a ballroom dance instructor for Arthur Murray.

I studied with them for a few months, relearning all the moves I'd forgotten, and learning how to teach them to others. I learned how to lead, and how to teach both men and women their respective parts. I student taught and learned how to rack up sufficient clientele. I was doing something I loved, and something I was good at, and it was awesome.

I was offered the job, but sadly couldn't accept it, because they sprung a contract on me that stated that if I were to ever leave Arthur Murray, then I couldn't teach within 25 miles of any Arthur Murray studio for a year or two (I can't remember which). This worried me, along with the fact that I was signing a contract in general- what if there was a huge economic crisis (do those happen?) and people stopped taking dance lessons, but I was still stuck in my contract? What if I never got more than 3 students?

Granted, I was still in my very early 20's, but I had bills to pay! I couldn't rely on the questionable salary and no benefits Arthur Murray was offering, so I had to go somewhere else.

Since then, ballroom dancing has always had a special place in my heart, but the only exposure I get to it is at TB's gigs. So I was very excited to get to go to the Swing Dance event last weekend, especially since LPP was there and he's an awesome dancer.

I danced with maybe 15 guys that night. And they weren't all old and smelly! None were smelly and one was kind of old, but the rest were young and cute. And they were all good dancers. It was a GREAT night. The only bad dancer I got was this funny looking skinny guy with dark hair and a big head. He knew the moves, and he was an ok lead, but he was kind of weird.

I understand the importance of being a strong lead. As a guy, it's your responsibility to cue your partner of what you intend on doing, so she can follow without hesitation. So, for example, when you are ready to turn your partner, you push her hand off with your hand, kind of forcefully, so she knows to separate from you, and do her turn. I'm not saying throw her across the room, but some force is good in this situation. Hence, a strong lead. And there's nothing sexier than a guy who is a confident dancer and a good, strong lead.

This guy had some kind of dominatrix problem. Instead of confidently but gently pushing me away for my turns, he shoved. Hard. Then kind of kept his hand, limp, up in the air. He was all like, "Be gone, bitch." I didn't like it. It felt like he was sick of me all of a sudden, so he pushed me away, but then he'd hold his hand out for me once I completed the turn, so we could continue dancing.

Not sexy.

Do It, Rockapella!

Last night TB and I went on over to the Strathmore to witness my 4th ever Rockapella concert. Despite the fact that I've seen the group before, this was a new group to me. The baritone and bass had left the band and been replaced, and this was the first time I'd even heard them with the new members.

I don't handle change very well, so I wasn't being optimistic about the new singers. But I'm happy to say that the concert was amazing, and that they are every bit as awesome as they ever were.

Here are the highlights and lowlights of the evening. Because I like to think of myself as an optimist, I will go through the highlights first.

-I have a new obsession. For the last 15? 16? 17? years I have been constantly professing my undying love for lead/hi tenor Scott Leonard. I think I've mentioned him before. Well, my friends, I have a new love interest. George Baldi. Sigh. He's the new bass. But, in addition to his deep, sexy, melodic voice, he's an AWESOME dancer. Very smooth. Just to give you an idea of how awesome he is, he did a solo while doing the robot. Read that sentence again. He did a low low low bass solo while flawlessly executing the smoothest sexiest robot I've seen in my life.

The first time I saw Rockapella in concert, Sean Altman, Elliott Kerman and Barry Carl were still in the band. It was at Goucher College, and I was maybe 14 or 15 at the time. None of my friends were interested in Rockapella (big surprise) so I begged my mom to make the hour-long trip from Frederick to Towson for me. She had no interest in attending the concert, but since my brother attended Towson University, she agreed to drive me since she could pass the time by nagging my brother. So there I sat, all by myself, in the most awesome seat ever. I was at eye-level with the band, maybe 20 or 30 feet back, dead center. I was wearing a baseball cap, probably backwards, because even then at that early age I was the epitome of high fashion. Elliott caught my eye, and for some bizarre reason I smiled. He smiled back. That was probably one of the most wonderful moments in my life. Because it was natural and genuine. I tried to channel George in this same fashion, but he didn't respond. I'll have to keep working on it.

-My future husband George said these sentences: I had to clench my butt cheeks really hard. I might need 20 or 30 seconds now. Sure he was joking around about reaching high notes, but just the mental image that comment produced alone....

-They closed with Rock the Boat. Which is still stuck in my head today. Actually, this might be a lowlight.

Not-So-Highlights included:

-Some numbskull thought it was appropriate to, not only bring a 2-year old to this concert, but force the poor kid to sit through the entire show without break. The show was 90 minutes straight through (no intermission). I hardly had the attention span for this, and I was occupying myself by drooling over George and imagining what our kids would look like. The poor kid was loud and fidgety. Which made me angry and unsympathetic. I'm a mom, and I can understand that kids aren't always cooperative. But what upset me the most is that, instead of taking this child out to the lobby when he got loud, they just made things even worse by shushing him and indulging in his desire to crawl across the laps of his 3 escorts. And it didn't help that they were just across the aisle from me.

-The Babysitter that wouldn't leave. I like the girl. But by the time we got home, it was late and I just wanted to get to sleep. I need to be at work at 6am. So I'm putzing around the kitchen, trying to get stuff ready for the next morning, and I turn around and she's standing there. She asks for a Pepsi, I assume she wants the caffeine for the ride home, so I give her one. And then she just stands there in front of me, staring at me, and drinks it. I tried to make small talk because let's face it, it was getting awkward. Finally TB came upstairs and I broke free.

-TB and I are putzes. At close to midnight last night, he was looking for his keys and I was looking for my cell phone. He had discovered that he'd misplaced his keys just before we left for the concert. Not wanting to be late, we just took mine, and he picked up the search for them when we got home. I had left my phone at home for the concert (which NEVER happens), and I had picked it up when we got back to look at my text messages and set my alarm for the next morning. Then put it down somewhere and couldn't remember where it was.

So both of us numbnuts are trying to quietly ransack the house looking for our keys and phone. I'm not sure where he found his keys, but my phone had been placed on a bag of marshmallows on the kitchen counter. Makes sense, right?

Ass Burgers and BS

Attractive title, isn't it?

I finished reading John Elder Robison's book, Look Me In the Eye a few weeks ago. It wasn't as easy a read as his brother's books, but it was pretty interesting and I was able to finish it, which says a lot.

As an adult, Robison was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome, which is a condition on the autism spectrum that is characterized by "difficulties in social interaction and restricted, stereotyped patterns of behavior and interests," according to Wikipedia. In his book, he describes what his life was like growing up as an Aspergian, although he didn't know it until much later.

While reading this book, I found that I could totally relate. I'm not saying I have Asperger's Syndrome. My general lack of focus in anything would separate me from the almost savant-like Aspergians. I'm just saying there are small similarities. While I'm generally able to maintain eye contact, while making sure not to let it get to CREEPY level, my small talk skills leave much to be desired, and usually I don't attempt small talk at all because I suck at it so much.

But the funniest similarity I noticed between Robison and myself is the need to create names for people. He called his parents Slave and Stupid. I almost died when I read that, I only wish I had been clever enough to think of names like that for my parents (although I did call my mom Mamaduke in high school. She was not fond of that name). He calls his wife Unit Two. His son is Cubby. His brother started out as Snort, then grew into Varmint, and currently has no title other than Hey.

Genius. I, too, create names for people. Some aren't aware of this. Some, unfortunately for them, are. SB started out as a Peanut, but now she is Chicken. Chicken is a nickname. It is short for Chicken Little Peanut Pie.

Some of my creations you have already met- LPP and Bucky, I believe, have already made appearances here. Now here's what cracks me up. It's so much easier on the tongue to use LPP's real name (Pete) than to actually say LPP. One syllable versus three. Yet I still call him that. And his girlfriend is Mrs. LPP. His mom is Mama LPP, etc...

Many of the people who frequent my fitness center have earned themselves titles. G, Mortimer and BB all work in the next building over from mine. Blank Stare works entirely too close to me. Benny (if I'm in a good mood) works upstairs.

My husband plays in a band with the XBF (not really an ex, that's just what I call him), who has dated both The Ancient One and the Crack Whore (currently ex-)Girlfriend.

My husband is the luckiest of all, because his names are everchanging. He has been T-Butt (during my J-Lo phase), Toddles, Toddifer, Bu, and BB (short for Bu Bear). He puts up with a lot.

He would have been Toddsford, but that's the name I gave to a friend back in high school. And they certainly can't share it.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

OK, I have exciting news about Blank Stare.

Are you ready for this?

OK. I was actually nice to him today.

On purpose!

I know!

I talked with him, and everything! I totally acknowledged his existence, and I might have even asked him a polite question or two. I volunteered that TB (being an Eagles/Ravens fan) was very happy with this weekend's games. I told him that I had to leave early to bring SB to the pediatrician, then responded with more than one word about why.

Now don't go acting all crazy, thinking we're becoming friends, or that I'm starting to like him or anything. I can't guarantee I will continue to be nice to him.

But it's a start, right?

Rockapella Tonight!!

I'm really excited today because TB's Christmas present to me this year is tickets to a Rockapella Christmas concert...tonight! He got a sitter lined up, he contacted my boss at work to get coverage for me since this is usually my night to work late, and he got the tickets. It's at the Strathmore in Northern Virginia, and I can't wait. This will be the first time I've seen or heard them with their new tenor and bass.

Awesome.

Now all I have to do is figure out how I can get Scott Leonard to marry me without sacrificing my marriage to TB. Hmmmmm....

Picture Perfect

I have 2 posts on the backburner that I have started, but just don't really feel like finishing right now. One is about a book I finished last week, called Broken, and the other is a recap of the Swing Dance event TB played on Saturday night, where LPP made a guest appearance and my back hurt from dancing so much. Hopefully I'll get the motivation to finish those up and post them. We'll see.

Yesterday was a busy day. We're not a huge portrait family. I just can't justify spending all that money for a picture. But my mother's only request for a Christmas present this year was a portrait of the family, so we felt compelled to oblige her. Since this was all last-minute, and I had no idea how long it takes to get the photos back after the appointment, I was excited to find on Saturday that there was an opening the next day (yesterday).

So we got all dressed up, which was an event in and of itself. I wear sweats all the time at work. It's been a while since I wore any pants that aren't jeans or leggings. After much searching and digging, I settled on a pair of Old Navy khakis and found a sweater that didn't make me look like a linebacker, and was happy.

The dress that I had planned on SB wearing, was a sleeveless dress that goes on top of a turtleneck. Of course, since I do laundry on Sunday, there were no clean turtlenecks. I like to dress SB for comfort since she's all over the place, so there wasn't much available that was suitable for a family portrait. So I had to settle on her Christmas card photo outfit- dark red corduroys and a white sweater.

But that just screwed everything up. I was wearing a cream sweater, and I knew that my cream next to her white would look awkward. PLUS TB had already gotten dressed in khakis and a maroon shirt. So now between the 3 of us, we had 2 shades of white, 2 shades of khaki, and 2 shades of dark red.

Great.

TB's only other clean shirt had a huge stain on the right nipple (wtf, is he lactating?) so changing wasn't an option for him. SB didn't have any other clean clothes that were presentable, so changing wasn't an option for her. I am pretty sure I didn't have any other pants that fit, so those had to stay. But I was agreeable to changing into a green argyle sweater at the last minute, thus sticking to our lame "Christmas" theme.

At the studio, the photographer was running about 30-45 minutes late. Or so we thought. Sitting in the waiting room, begging our 3-year old to remain calm and not tear the entire place apart, we witnessed the photographer asking his staff is anyone else was waiting. Eagerly, we sat up straighter, only to see the staff shake their heads no. Taking a second to look up from the lollipop she was sucking on, the front desk girl (whose shirt was a good 3 sizes too small for her, creating a puffy life preserver of fat that settled over the waistband of her 2 sizes-too-tight pants) must have noticed my jaw hitting the floor because, shifting her lollipop over to the side of her mouth, she asked me if we were waiting.

I nodded so vigorously my earring fell off. The photographer beckoned us back while the Life Saver girl apologized, saying she thought we had already had our photos taken. I guess she thought we just chose to stay around for the atmosphere.

So we go back there, and the photographer, Paul, tries to make friends with SB by telling her he's a grandpa, meanwhile trying to make friends with me and TB by telling us he recently had hernia surgery. He puts us in a variety of poses, including:

-TB straddling me while I straddled a fur-covered stool, with SB sitting on his leg
-Us standing and holding SB in between us
-All of us sitting on the stained white bedsheet/curtain trying not to gag on the smell
-Above photo with SB laying in front of us, playboy style
and my favorite
-All of us laying on our backs, with our heads in a circle (a pose he admitted he had never tried with adults)

After the photos had been taken, we were lead to a computer where we were presented with our options, including one where the photo was made into a 4x8" card with the words "Class of 2009" next to our lovely mugs. We chose the two most conservative shots (which were conveniently the 2 shots where I looked the best) and placed our order. After politely declining Life Saver's offer of a $159 package that included a variety of sizes but only 1 8x10, expressed only AFTER we announced that all we wanted were 5 8x10s, we headed out.

To see Santa.

Which will be its own post. Later.

I Think, Therefore I...Think. I Think.

So as I was driving home from work today, I found myself daydreaming while stopped at a red light. This is not to say that I don't daydream while I'm actually moving, because I do- more than I'd care to admit. But this time I was lucky enough to be stopped when the daydream enveloped me. And don't ask, because I couldn't tell you what I was daydreaming about, even if I wanted to. Which I don't.

But suddenly I realize without even looking that my light had turned green so I snapped out of it and went on my way.

Fascinating story, eh?

But it has a point. Have you ever noticed how you don't have to even be looking at the traffic light to know when it changes colors? Granted, I probably wouldn't have noticed if I had been looking down, trying to find a good song on the radio. But as long as my gaze is focused in a semi-upwards manner, even if I'm staring at clouds in the sky or looking at nothing while my mind travels at a million miles per second all over the place, I always notice when the light changes.

Which caused me to think: Is that why traffic lights go from green to yellow to red? For that reason, specifically? Or would any selection of colors have the same effect?

So, I looked it up. And I present to you, for your enjoyment and enlightenment, what I discovered:

The colors used for traffic lights were adopted from the color code system used by railroad engineers. Red was chosen because it symbolizes danger or warning, and would get people's attention. Originally, green meant "caution" and white was used to signal "go". But problems arose when stars or streetlights could easily be mistaken for the "go" signal, plus if the red or green cover that is placed in front of the light bulb to create that color fell out, then the naked bulb would be white. So they made green "go" and yellow "caution".

As a side note, the green light has hints of blue in it, and the red light has hints of orange in it to make it easier for colorblind people to recognize the colors.

So there you have your obscure history lesson for the day. I was disappointed to find out that there was no real psychologically-based reasoning for choosing those colors in terms of reaction time or noticeability. Oh well. At least I don't have to think about it anymore.

For some inexplicable reason, I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. Generally, when I start thinking, this is not a good thing, due mostly to the overanalytical-turned-downward-spiral tendencies of my random thought pattern, which invariably result in increased numbers of insecurities, self-doubt, the compulsion to assign meaning to even the most trivial occurrences, and well, generalized unhappiness and dissatisfaction with every single aspect of my life.

In other words, thinking makes me go to my dark place. And I feel that I'm well on my way since my brain has started acting up again. So hopefully I'll run into some sort of distraction here in my life that will take my mind off this horrible thinking thing and let me live on in ignorant bliss. Kind of like Blank Stare.

But not quite exactly like Blank Stare.

I Judge Some Books by their Covers. But Not All.

TB just left for his 12-2am Senators' gig. And I'm sitting here trying to get into my newest book. I tried to find someone to go with me to the gig, but all my friends are either out of town or have plans. Stupid friends who are physically unavailable....

I could have gone by myself. It wouldn't be the first time that I attended one of TB's gigs on my own. But the All Mighty Senators are a completely different situation. These guys are scary.

Now don't get me wrong- I've met most of them and I consider them all to be very decent, intelligent people. Yes, Craig the trombone player has the biggest 'fro I've ever seen on a white guy, which compliments his long beard that he wears braided. And frightens the bejeezes out of SB. Yes, Dave the trumpet player maintains an eerie likening to what would happen if Skeletor and John Lennon created a love child. Yes, Landis, the drummer/lead singer wears makeup and dresses.

But I swear- they're all really nice guys. They're just fairly successful musicians who do nothing but focus on their art, so they can look as scary eccentric as they want.

The problem lies in their following. I mean, what kind of person do you think would be drawn to this:


They've actually come a long way, seeing as how this is what they looked like about 15 years ago.



Click on the photo to enlarge it, then look carefully all the way to the left. You'll see part of a man (I can only presume it's Landis) wearing nothing but Underoos. And this is tame. I remember seeing one shot where band members were wearing diapers and angel wings. Yeah, so you can maybe imagine why I chose to stay at home rather than brave this insanity alone.

So I'm sitting here trying to get through my most recent book, Broken. It wasn't my first choice. I actually got it from the library. I haven't been to the library in years. I prefer to purchase all my books, because I don't really read anything anymore unless I'm confident that I like it. And if I like it I always end up wanting to keep it. But TB told me that we'd probably go broke if I kept buying all my books, plus SB's. Especially since I've been going through a book and a half per week lately.

I was not happy with the library's selection. Barnes & Noble has a much better spread of books. And they're not all smelly and worn out. Who knows where these books have been? Who knows what the person who read this book before me was doing while they read? I shudder just thinking of the possibilities.

I'll be the first to admit it: I'm a total book snob. And I totally judge books by their covers. Unless it was a recommendation from one of my bookworm friends, if the cover's not attractive to me, I don't read it. So this particular book, Broken, was only chosen because its cover was more appealing to me than any other one on the shelf. And because it was paperback. I hate hardcover. I only get them on the very rare occasion that it's the only option for the book I want.

So yeah, I'm not too sure this library thing is going to work out for me. It's great for SB- they had a whole shelf of Dr. Seuss books! But I was so impressed with the ones that we got (One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish and Fox In Socks) that I'm afraid I might just want to go out and buy them.

We'll see.

Whatever It Takes.

So last night's rant about the Spawn of Satan got me thinking about the strange habits of people in my fitness center. Well, that and the fact that one of the most annoying is here now. So I decided to take the time to make fun of discuss some of the bizarre, or just plain old annoying, things people do while here in the Fitness Center.

There's a guy who comes in first thing in the morning. Usually he gets here even before the doors have been unlocked, and I have to let him in. That in and of itself is annoying, in my books. But while he's working out, he raps. Out loud. And he's the scrawniest, tiniest little white boy I've seen in my life. But he's totally gangsta. It's more aggravating than amusing, but he's not the only one who sings out loud to the music bouncing around in his head. There are several people who forget that they're not 1)alone; or 2)trying out for American Idol and sing out loud to their iPod music. But for some reason, this rap guy gets on my nerves the most. I don't need to hear this.

Then there's the Sweaty Moaner. Have I mentioned him before? Nicest guy in the world. And he works out very hard. So hard, in fact, that anything that comes within a 4' radius of him is covered in sweat in a matter of seconds. I understand that naturally, some people sweat more than others. I also have a hunch that he is on some kind of medication, either prescription (antidepressants) or not (thermogenics) that cause excessive sweat. Or all of the above. Because the amount of sweat that penetrates from his body is unnatural. All he needs to do is turn his head and anyone standing in the general vicinity gets a spray. Gross.

But that's not all. In addition to the inhuman amounts of sweat emanating from his body, he also has the obnoxious habit of emitting the most feminine sounds ever to come from a man while he lifts. He tries to lift heavy. Personally, from watching him, I think he's lifting a little too heavy because he doesn't really go through full range of motion, and his form sucks ass. But he's trying. I know a lot of guys here either grunt as they lift, or they exhale forcefully, producing a slightly unnerving hissing sound. As a girl, I don't really get this, but if it's what they need to do to prevent the passing out that would result from them holding their breath as they lifted, then I'm all about it. But the Sweaty Moaner doesn't grunt, he moans.

The first couple of times I heard him, I looked around to see who was getting laid and where. I can't really put into words how this sounds, but whenever I hear it, I immediately expect to hear the sounds of sweaty body parts slamming together, and wait for him to yell out "Oh, GOD, YES!!!!" It's not a sound that any guy should ever make, in the gym or in the bedroom.

There's one guy who talks to himself in the mirror in between sets. I know he's not rapping because he doesn't listen to music as he works out. But in between sets on the machines he'll inch up really close to the mirror, look himself in the eye, and talk quietly to his reflection. I think he's motivating himself and providing himself with positive reinforcement for a job well done. I haven't been lucky enough, or close enough, to actually hear what he's saying. But I'm not completely sure I want to.

One of my least favorite people here is the Slammer. He's an older guy (in his 50's, maybe?) who comes in and slams the weights down once he's finished with each set. Not free weights, where they would only make a dull thud after landing on the padded floor. Oh, no. This guy slams down the weights on the machines. So after he's finished with the leg press, for example, instead of easing the plate back down to the starting position like most normal people, he just lets all tension in his legs go, which results in a loud WHACK, which causes me to jump out of my skin. Every. Single. Time.

Keep in mind that I spent a good part of my career dealing with seniors and high risk populations. I've basically trained myself to, by reflex, jump over the counter at the sound of any loud slamming noise since that usually means someone went down or is pinned under a weight. So I lose about 4 years off of my life every time this guy comes in since I can't seem to get used to it. We've told him before that not only is it bad for the equipment to slam the weight stack down like that, it's also bad on his joints. But he doesn't care. He just nods and moves on to the next exercise.

At some point in his routine, he likes to back himself up against a corner that juts out. Usually, this is the corner adjacent to the door of the group exercise room. He positions himself so that the corner is in line with his butt crack. Then he puts his arms out to the side like he's trying to fly, and proceeds to do squats like that.

Wall squats? I get. They are a great exercise, especially for those with back problems. But I'm not sure why he does it up against a corner. Most people do it against the flat part of the wall. It actually looks painful, especially as he lowers down and his legs bend and (in my mind, as much as I try not to visualize this) open up the crack of his butt more, making him more...vulnerable to the sharp point of the corner.

Weird.

There's plenty more where that came from, but I think I'll save the rest for another post, the next time people's odd habits start getting on my nerves. Stay tuned!

The Spawn Returns

So The Spawn is in here right now. This time, she came in considerably earlier than before- I guess she walked in around 7pm. But she didn't change her clothes, she hobbled right up to the leg press machine, heaved herself onto it and went to town with all of 7.5 pounds of resistance.

Does it even go that low? I hope not.

I say she hobbled because she's limping around like a wounded buffalo. I ran into her on the main floor one day about a month or so ago and saw she had one of those boots on. You know what I'm talking about- those blue boots that people strap on when their injury doesn't warrant a hard cast. I'm sure they have a name, but seeing as how I just barely manage to escape needing medical attention every time I injure myself (which is frequently), I've never needed one.

She's not wearing it now, which disappoints me since I would kick her out of her faster than she could whip out her tail and stab me with the pointy end.

But the battle's on. It's 7:13 and she's the only thing standing in my way of leaving this Hellhole. I have a sinking feeling that she's going to draw out her lame and pointless workout until 7:31, at least, then complain that I was rushing her so I could close early.

A quick survey of the room told me that she's doing pelvic thrusts against the seat of the back extension machine. And by pelvic thrusts I mean standing behind the machine and repeatedly thrusting her lower lady parts area into the back of the seat of the machine. That's a new exercise. I wonder if she's trying to mate with it. Plant her seed. To produce the Spawn of the Spawn of Satan.(Note to self: disinfect back extension machine first thing in the morning. Or better yet, burn it.)

OMG now she's heading over to the rower. Seriously, the woman thing can hardly walk and she's going to row??

Oh, the agony. I swear, she does this on purpose. I must have been naughty recently, because this is certainly punishment. Why am I alone with her? Why didn't I bring my garlic and my cross?

OK, she's off the rower. I think she pulled back twice. Tough workout.

She hobbled over to the water fountain, glanced at a notice hanging above the fountain, and is now making her way back to her lover the back extension machine.

--Are you loving this play-by-play, by the way? It's all I can do to keep from throwing myself onto her back and stabbing her in the place her heart would be with a pen.

OK she's gone. And so am I.

Band Wife or Divorcee?

In case you're wondering why I haven't much been discussing the Band Wife aspect of my life as a Band Wife, it's been a slow couple of months. My husband, both with and without The Band plays much fewer gigs during the winter, and the few that he does play are mostly private jobs that I can't attend.

That being said, he's playing this Friday night at the Recher Theater in Towson with the All Mighty Senators, a funk group who he played and toured with back in the day, before he and I got together. Also on the bill for that evening are Jah Works and the Kelly Bell Band. Kind of big names, locally. I was really looking forward to it but now I'm finding out that none of my friends can go with me. So I'm not sure whether my participation in this event is going to occur.

In a few weeks, he's playing with The Band at a Swing Dance Society dance. LPP is planning on coming back for this one, and bringing his friend Jesus (pronounced Hey-Zoos...in case there was any confusion), which thrills me to no end because 1)it's LPP, and we all know how I feel about him; and 2)they can both swing dance. So I'm looking forward to that.

I hope we have a sitter lined up.

Zero Calorie Foods

I would hope that I know more than the average person about health, fitness and nutrition. If not, then I should probably not be doing what I do. Not that that's really stopped anyone before.

I've been in the field a long time, but I think I maintain a fairly objective view of what people who aren't in the field should and shouldn't know. How to choreograph a step class? Shouldn't necessarily know. That potato chips are not health food because they are made of potatoes, which are vegetables? Probably should know.

When I worked at the hospital, I implemented a hospital-wide team weight loss challenge. Just as it sounds, anyone who worked in the hospital could team up with any 3 other workers. They got their body fat and weight measured at the start of the program, then again at the end. If I remember correctly, the winners were those who lost the greatest percentage of body weight.

Since the whole idea was to promote healthy eating and exercise habits, my department (as representatives of the hospital fitness center) offered weekly emails with hints and suggestions, motivational meetings, free group personal training, and free fitness center memberships through the course of the challenge. I was the contact person for all of this, and all communication came from me.

My Inbox was filled each week with questions and concerns from many participants. I was glad to have the opportunity to help these people achieve their goals, so I didn't mind one bit.

But I started getting frustrated when the stupid questions came pouring in. I know that sounds really mean. But seriously, these were adults asking me things that I couldn't believe someone couldn't know.

For example, one lady asked me for a list of the foods with no calories. Really? Even gum has calories! I told her water and diet soda are the only two I know about, and there has been a lot of research suggesting diet soda actually increases your risk of obesity. I know there are some foods (celery and lettuce, maybe?) that have a reputation for containing less calories than it takes to chew and digest them, but really- was this person planning on living off of celery, lettuce and diet coke? If it were that easy, obesity wouldn't be such a problem in these United States!

Just today, someone approached me after an abs class with concerns that something was wrong with him because he couldn't come up into a full sit-up, in fact he could barely get his shoulder blades off the ground. And he was worried that, when doing the leg lift exercises, he felt pressure in his lower back. I explained to him that nothing was wrong with him, he just needs to strengthen his abdominal muscles.

I also love how girls come to me asking for a new workout routine to help them lose some weight, and when I ask them about their diet, I find that they're basically starving themselves. Sure, that might work in the short term, but eventually they're going to lose all their muscle mass which will slow down their metabolism, which will cause them to burn less calories on a daily basis. Not to mention that this habit can only be maintained for a short period of time before the ultimate binge occurs. Then all the weight will be gained back, with a vengeance, and there will be less muscle to counteract it, and they will be worse off than they started.

Maybe I'm being a snob, but these things seem common sense to me. I'm not sure why someone would come into an abs class and expect to be in as good shape as the instructor or others who have been taking the class a few times per week for the last 2 years.

I wasn't always a fitness professional. Back in the day, if I wanted to lose weight, for example, I read a book or did research on the Internet before confronting a professional with my concerns. At least that way I didn't look like a complete idiot. People are so lazy these days.

Yawn.

I try not to complain about my job too much. Blank Stare? Yes, I complain about him all the time. But he is just one aspect of my job. I feel that there is just no use complaining about my job because right now it's all I've got. But sometimes things just get to me.

I get bored very easily. I'm no Einstein, but I have common sense and a really great work ethic. Don't laugh- I do. I've been complimented on it my entire life. No employer of mine has ever complained that I don't try hard enough, or that I have problems grasping the concept of my job. When faced with a new position, it takes me a little time, but eventually I master it.

Then I get bored.

I am beyond bored in my current position. The only challenging part of my job is when I have to teach a step class with a tummy ache. That's kind of tough. But other than that, it's in the bag. In fact, it was in the bag my first day. I got there at 11:30am, and was alone by 2pm. I closed by myself the first night there. Does that give you a pretty good idea of what's expected of me? Very little.

Yeah. My favorite job so far was when I was an exercise physiologist in the cardiac rehab department of a large hospital. Now that was a good job for me and my WADD (work ADD). On any given day I could be doing any combination of the following: Phase I, II or III cardiac rehab, medical fitness, personal training, teaching group exercise, bariatric consultations, diabetes lectures, new member orientations, writing the newsletter, working on incentive programs, working on the new Exercise for Cancer Patients manual, or MI/high risk patient consultations.

It was awesome. I was never bored, and I was constantly challenged.

Here? I am always bored. Basically I see my current job as one big social hour, interrupted only by classes I teach and the random assessment I get to do. And as much fun as that is to spend my days harassing the people who work for the company whose fitness center I staff, it kind of sucks when they have work to do. Which is more often than I do. Which is never.

But I also get frustrated when I see things that are neglected by my fellow staff. Photocopies of forms that were never made, sweat towels and CDs left out in the AV cabinet in the Group Ex room, publications that brag eternal life and contain so many typos and misprints and spelling/grammatical errors that they look like they were put together by a blind Chinese kindergartner. They leave without folding the required number of towels for the person on the next shift. I understand what it's like to be soooo busy you don't have time to put your towel in the bin. BUT WE'RE SOOOO NOT BUSY AT MY GYM. So really, there's no excuse.

I have high standards. I've been dealing with the repercussions of having these unattainable standards my entire life, so it's really not their problem that I'm getting frustrated. It's my own. But it is really becoming a problem.

I've tried to create work for myself. I expanded the monthly newsletter to 4 pages, from the 2 pages that it was originally. Just so I would have more stuff to research and look up. I've pretty much taken over doing all the end of the month reports and paperwork so that there's at least one day per month that I am slightly busy. Other than that, there's not much else to do.

Except thank my lucky stars that I at least have the Internet, and a plethora of work friends that I can badger with constant emails begging them to entertain me.

Why Don't We All Just Sleep In?

Here's what my eyes are seeing right now, as I sit here at work on yet another boring Saturday morning. I don't know if I'm in a really bad mood right now, and judging relentlessly, or if people are getting weirder and weirder by the day, but people are really annoying me today.

For example, two girls running on treadmills are engaged in a conversation about how annoying a mutual friend is. This wouldn't be so bad, in and of itself, even though it's difficult to hear even a person standing next to you above the sound of the treadmills' motors as well as 2 pairs of feet pounding on the belt. But both girls have their ipods strapped to their arms, and headphones jammed in their ears. So not only do they have to yell over the sound of the machines, but they have to be loud enough that they can hear each other over the sound of each girl's personal selection of background music.

There is a guy on the Reebok Fusion who has a towel draped over his head. I don't understand that. He looks like he belongs on the sands of Saudi Arabia on the back of a camel. What would people think if I stood in front of my step class and proceeded to teach with a towel draped over my head? Why can't he just wipe the sweat away on his shirt like everyone else does?

These are all stupid little things, I know. But here's the most annoying thing for me. I took the initiative to have a plastics recycling bin put in the fitness center. We're not the greenest people on earth, so it's certainly the least we could do, especially since water's just about all anyone drinks in here. So imagine my disappointment when I walked in this morning and saw this:



I know for a fact that it's Blank Stare's. That's the kind of water he drinks, and he was the closer last night.

I will give him this: I know what it's like to finish up a bottle of water just before you're walking out for the night. The desk where we watch porn surf the net looking for jobs play on Face Book email coworkers about how much we hate Blank Stare sit is on the opposite end of the gym from the recycling bin.

I know how much of a pain it is to walk all the way to the other end of the fitness center just to drop a bottle in, then turn around and go all the way back. Really, I do! I've been in that exact same situation before, myself.

But I feel so guilty dropping the bottle into the trash, especially since the only reason I'm doing that is because of my own laziness.

So I'll do one of three things: 1) Get over myself and make the 10-second walk to the recycle bin; 2) Throw the empty water bottle into my bag and take it home with me to throw into my own recycling bin there; or 3) Set the empty bottle on my desk and throw it in my bin the next morning.

I am really not the queen of laziness, but at the end of a long day where I've worked out on my own in addition to teaching classes that wear me out, and all I want to do is go home, sometimes I just don't want to make that extra effort. So sue me.

Even if he didn't choose one of my options listed above, I still feel that Blank Stare could have done something besides just throwing it out.

This just reinforces my already unfavorable opinion of him.

Oh- and before you ask- YES I did take the nasty BS-spit-riddled bottle out of the trash and put it in the blue bin.

Dear Diary

Apparently my last post about yesterday evening didn't contain enough excitement for Eludius (can you say Drama Queen?) so here's another post that has less of my current mundane life as a mom and more of my former mundane life as a teenager.

I don't keep a diary now, but I did throughout most of high school. For some reason, a few days ago I thought about my diary and how I chronicled my trying out for the volleyball team my freshman year. I have taken the liberty of transcribing certain entries from this period (word for word), because what could be more thrilling than reading what a 13 year old girl has to say about trying out for the volleyball team? I think this tells you a lot about the kind of person I am. And it's not very favorable. Of course.

August 14, 1993
Hey! Wassup? (Did I expect an answer?)A lot here. I went to Dad's for a week. It was ok but really boring. I got 3 new shirts for school. Now all I need is jeans and summerwear. Tracy's here now but she's asleep. She spent the night here and we stayed up until like 4:30am talking. It was fun. On Monday I start volleyball practice. I can't wait. I hope I make the team. I'm trying out against 30 other girls; 10 will make the team. I hope I'm one of them. It means a lot to me. There was a meeting on Thursday for all autumn sports and Alonzo was there, talking with Susan H. I felt sorta bad cause I just ignored him and didn't even say "hi" but I didn't want to seem as if I was there alone so I had to find Angie C., who's also trying out for volleyball who I'm positive will make it. She's really good. I wish my hair would hurry up and grow. It's starting to grow in straight, but the ends are frizzier than ever. REALLY curly. I hope it's not natural. I sent out to get some shampoo that makes hair grow faster. I doubt I'll get it though. I sent cash and you were supposed to send checks or CODs. They could just take my money. I hope they are honest enough to send it (the shampoo). And if they do, I hope it works. It seems like the perfect solution to my problem. OK Gotta run. C ya.

OK I think that one sentence about the meeting where I ignored Alonzo? Can you say run-on? Also, I'm really glad that I clarified that it was the shampoo that I hope the company sends, and not something else. And yes, a shampoo that makes one's hair grow faster DOES seem like the perfect solution to the problem of hair that needs to grow. Yeah.

August 19, 1993
Hey! I'm SO sore and tired from volleyball. My legs really ache. I don't see why since we're not really doing too much with our legs anyway. Except for all the running. Tomorrow is the first cuts. I'm sorta worried. Jasmine G, Tara, Sarah A, Kim, Shannon, Sherry, Evie and maybe Sarah H. Those are the people I'm most worried about. Crystal too. I really want to make the team. Well, if I don't make the team, I won't be a sore loser about it. At least then I won't have to swim. It's such a pain for me. Alonzo called me again the other day (He can't swim) (He told me that). He also asked what I was doing that night. I was worried what he'd say next so I said "sleeping." That shut him up! I like him, but only as a friend. I'm really tired now. I'll write more tomorrow after I get home from (1st cuts) practice and tell you how I did. C ya.

Really? That's so weird that my legs were sore...but I wasn't doing anything with them. You know, aside from all that running. And no, I have no idea what swimming had to do with making the team.

OK here's my favorite entry:

August 20, 1993
Hi. I'm sorta depressed. I didn't make it past first cuts. NOT! I made it through with flying colors! Here are all the non-varsity players who made it.....I won't bore you with that list, but it started off with "moi"....Angie C. says that she thinks 3-5 people will be cut this Friday. I hope I'm not one of them. I got a temporary uniform to wear tomorrow cause we're getting a group picture taken. I must look bee-yoo-ti ful! I'm not too worried about being popular this year. I just want to be liked. By everyone. C ya.

OK. I can't get over the fact that I actually thought I might FORGET that I was on the volleyball team and believe that I didn't make it past first cuts. Or at least I couldn't until I pulled this diary out a few years ago, read this entry and believed it. Yes. For an instant there, I was terrified that I never actually made it onto the team, but had convinced myself that I had somehow. Whatever, this paragraph is confusing me, even.

But I'm also really impressed at the maturity I showed by not being too worried about being popular and just being happy with being liked. By everyone.

Is It the Weekend Yet?

Yesterday was a very busy day for me, after work. I had to take SB with me to drop Bucky off at the airport, then go straight to dance class, get the obligatory Wednesday night Chicken nugget happy meal and milkshake from Chik Fila (for SB, not me), get my run in, put SB to bed, then settle down to watch America's Next Top Model.

Bringing SB to the airport was a huge mistake. Not like I had a choice or anything, since The Man had to work. But she convinced herself that she was going to get to ride in an airplane, and once she realized that wasn't going to happen, she was inconsolable. In rush hour traffic. On the Baltimore beltway.

Yeah, fun stuff.

So we went to dance class. The good news is that Anna didn't lick the floor this time. She was out sick last week and I can't help but wonder if she licked up some germ off the floor. Yuck! The crazy loud older girls were there again this week, yelling and screaming, knocking on the bathroom door while someone was in it, then running away. I was actually impressed that the Mother Du Jour (I think they all taking turns carting all the girls to class each week) actually reprimanded them for being obnoxious. Plus, I like them just a little more this week because one girl actually went out of her way to tell the one they were making fun of a few weeks ago what they were doing- an obvious attempt to include her! Nevermind that she didn't really care...I was happy they made the effort.

Then I went home and procrastinated running for as long as I possibly could. Dance class ends at 5:30, so after picking up SB's dinner, we were probably home just before 6pm. I think it was around 8pm by the time I heaved myself onto the treadmill. And I didn't accomplish one single thing during that time, except realizing that I have atrocious split ends and am way overdue for a haircut.

I should have not even bothered with the treadmill. I might have helped SB with her milkshake a little- the calories don't count when it's her milkshake, right?? .....right? And I think that's probably the main reason as to why, 13 minutes into the run I had to pull the emergency stop magnet from the machine and throw myself onto the ground, writhing in pain at the horrible cramps in my stomach. I am so not a natural runner. I get cramps and stitches in my side all the freaking time. It's gotten better since I've become more serious about running, but every once in a while I'll do something stupid, like run with half a milkshake in my stomach, or after eating a pound of cherries, and the stitches will come back.

Usually I can run them off, but this one migrated from my right side to the center, then spread to both sides from there. I usually put a hand on the pain and press in, and coordinate my breathing, but I looked really stupid running with both hands on my hips, pinching my fat. Plus it wasn't working. So I gave up.

Once the pain was tolerable, I looked up at SB on the couch and found that she had fallen asleep. What?! That never happens! She never falls asleep on the couch! I guess not getting to ride on the airplane must have really taken something out of her. I brought her upstairs, brushed her teeth, threw her in her pj's and put her to bed a half hour early.

Are you totally on the edge of your seat reading this? I know...exciting stuff.

Then I settled in to watch the season finale of America's Next Top Model. LAME. My girls never wins. Usually my girl comes in second place, but this time she came in 3rd. I don't know why I bother anymore.

So I tossed and turned in bed, getting about 2 hours' worth of sleep total, got up this morning and finished my run. And here I am, waiting for the weekend. Pretty much because the excitement of this week is way too overwhelming for me. I need a break from the crazy.

Is it here yet?

Trust Issues

I am a very gullible person. I tend to believe most of everything I hear. Of course, if my education has taught me otherwise, I will be skeptical. So, those of you who work with me would be relieved to hear that if someone told me that, for example, a study conducted by the University of West Virginia found that women who strength trained regularly for a year were 15-20 years younger at the close of the study, I would contest that. (For those of you who don't work with me and haven't heard that story, it's a kind of inside joke, and I'm well aware that it's West Virginia University.)

But when it comes to personal issues, I will believe just about anything. Why? Because I trust people to tell me the truth. I was a horrible liar in high school. I don't mean I was a bad liar- I was actually quite good at it. By horrible I mean I did it way too much. In high school, I craved adoration and attention, so I would make up stupid stuff to make myself interesting to people. But I'm pretty sure that no one knew. At least, no one ever tried to call me on it. I was good at it. The key to being a good liar is offering just the right amount of information- not too much and not too little- and not making the lies too incredibly outlandish. And making people think you're a bad liar helps too.

But this needy phase in high school was the exception for me. Other than that, I've been an incredibly honest person. Not counting towards my mom. I've lied to her my entire life, and will probably continue to lie to her about random things until the day I die. Even if I die after her, I will probably lie to her in mental conversations with her in the afterlife. Even if she can see every move I make. But my messed up, dishonest relationship with my mother is another post altogether. So take what I say in this post to mean all relationships outside the one with my mom.

When I was in first and second grade, I lived across the court from a boy named Jason. He was my age, and although we went to different schools, we spent a lot of our free time together. I guess I was kind of a slut even then because we would often sneak into the woods behind his house to make out. I know. Second grade. I'm so ashamed.

Anyway, during the time that was not spent swapping spit, he would tell me all these stories about girls in his class that he had crushes on. In one particular instance, he related to me how he had actually tried to kiss one of the girls, but she moved away just in time. I think my brother was around when Jason told this story, and I think I said something to him about it. I don't think Joe knew that Jason and I were having a mini-affair, but I guess it was obvious to him that Jason kind of had a crush on me, because he said Jason was only saying those things to make me jealous.

I didn't get it. Why would he be trying to make me jealous? Didn't he already pretty much get whatever he wanted with me? (Yes, we were just kissing...please!) And I liked Jason, but it's not like I was planning our wedding or anything. I saw it as just having fun. Getting practice for later. We were still allowed to see other people, as far as I was concerned. I obviously felt that I was too young at the time to be tied down to one person. But why is it that Joe could see that these were just stories, but I couldn't?

Even now I have problems taking things with a grain of salt. I have one friend who is notorious among people who know him for exaggerating things. But I don't accept that. If he tells me that he went to a club and the women were all over him, pawing him left and right, I'll believe it. Why wouldn't I? How would he benefit from my believing that is a total ladies' man? A piece of meat? It wouldn't make me paw him up! It doesn't make me jealous because he's not my husband! And why would he want to make me jealous anyway?

For some reason, all of our friends see this. I will relate a story to them that he told me and their unanimous response is that that's what he says but he tends to exaggerate things, so it probably didn't happen, at least not the way he described. But I always believe him. Sometimes it frustrates me because exciting things tend to happen to him, and, as you can tell from this blog, I am experiencing a general lack of excitement in my life these days. That's when I wish that I possessed that skepticism that allows me to separate fantasy from fact and think that things may not have happened quite as interestingly as he described.

So then the problem arises when I compare myself to what this guy, and others like him, are saying. I'm not the kind of person who gets upset when good things happen to other people, especially my friends. But when a person speaks incessantly about, oh, I don't know...how ginormous his house is, or how incredibly busy she is because of her amazing social life, I tend to belittle my own house and social life. Which is even worse when what that person is saying isn't even completely true! So then in my head, these other people have completley fascinating, exciting lives with great houses, perfect families and incredible friends. And I am left feeling completely inadequate. Not a good feeling.

And now I'm having problems with my boyfriend obsession favorite author Augusten. His books are supposed to be true accounts of what happened. I took every word as the gospel. I believed his mother handed him over to her psychiatrist when he was in his early teens so she could deal with the effects of her failing marriage and pursue a life as a poet and writer. I believe that this psychiatrist's family was bizarre, unconventional family who spent their time eating dog food, admiring poop, living in their front yard and creating massive holes in the ceiling of their kitchen.

Why do I believe it? Because he says it's true. So every word is taken literally, in my mind. But now I find out (and forgive me for my ignorance to current events- this is actually old news) that the family that he was sent to live with actually sued him because of his inaccurate portrayal of his time spent with them.

So....it's not true? Did he or did he not play with an old electroshock machine? Who do I believe? I want to believe Augusten. Because why would he lie?

To sell books.

So where does that leave me? I guess at this point, I still believe what people say. And I'm vaguely aware that there might be some element of juicing things up to make them more interesting. And that might bother me somewhat. But I'm not about to start calling people out, attacking every minute detail of what they say in the hopes I can catch them in a lie. I guess the key is just listening and accepting, but not letting the details have an effect on me on the off chance that they are not accurate.

Easier said than done!