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.