Thursday, March 29, 2007
But really, is it necessary to make out during lunch? Really? With tongues? Really???
Today I was having a perfectly lovely lunch with my 76 year-old pal, Leon, when directly across from me- about 10 feet away- this 45-ish couple starts going at it. They had barely sat down before they started molesting one another's faces. If this wasn't bad enough, they held each other's heads in their hands as they did it "Harlequin romance novel-cover style", and their tongues weren't completely in each other's mouths. They were kissing with like an inch of space where the tongues just sort of "fondled" one another.
They really only stopped to eat and talk for, oh, I don't know, 3 minutes total.
Thank-you nasty PDA tongue-fondlers for ruining my lunch. I may never be able to eat a turkey-avocado wrap again without some sort of Nam-style flashback.
I'm pretty much as far from a prude as one can get, but jesus christ! Excessive PDA like this always makes me think that they have something to prove- or that they want everyone to watch 'cause they're just so darned sexy that it would be a shame to deprive the world of their "true love". We get it. We just don't want to see it.
I too, have been there: your relationship is new/fairly new, you can't keep your hands off of each other, you think you're the only two people in the world...
Problem is- you're not.
And the people staring at you and shoving their plates away in revulsion...well, that's everyone else.
My rule: a little PDA = o.k.
A little kissing (I'll take my tongue fondling on the side, please), hand-holding, wrapping your arm around their back, a friendly pat on the ass, a nuzzle here or there- all acceptable. Anything beyond that is foreplay and you need to take it where it belongs- an elevator, a stairwell, the fitting room at the Gap, you know- somewhere APPROPRIATE.
End of tirade.
I thank you for your time.
I was so shaken by my lunch, I thought I deserved something pretty:
Stargazer lilies! My favorite! You shouldn't have darling, but I ADORE you for it.
Yay! Pretty and pretty smelly!
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Or, in the case of one, made me lose a lot of money AND fucked up my life way.
But I'll keep them up- I think it's o.k. to remember past friends for both the good & the rotten things they did. We still had fun, at one point. We just can't be friends anymore. I'm guessing there are a few walls sporting pics of me that the owners are trying to decide of I should be booted off or not. Or maybe burned.
Which brings me to today's fun:
An open apology to a few people I've been less than my perfect, charming and otherwise worthy-of-a-humanitarian-award self to:
#1) To Angel, mine & Waffle's roommate at our first apartment in Duluth after high school:
I don't know how the argument started, as we were wasted (probably on Matilda Bay wine coolers), but I'm sorry we had that epic screaming match that culminated in our entire apartment being coated in popcorn. To my credit, your boyfriend was a creepy, middle-aged, biker pedophile, but it was your business if you wanted to be his girlfriend, not mine.
#2) To M- my frighteningly sensitive & delicate artist boyfriend for about a 6 months in, I don't know... 1990?:
I should have just broken up with you- but you were so emotional, for a boy, that I thought the best thing to do would be to humiliate you at the big Christmas party, for whatever reason. It was rude to spend the whole night in the upstairs bathroom with my friends and a bunch of cute boys playing spin the bottle. It probably didn't help things that I came out at the end of the evening covered in eyeliner (we were writing on each other for some reason I can't remember) and smelling from our cologne fight. Oh, and the smeared lipstick probably didn't impress you either. I really wasn't a very good girlfriend to begin with. I should have dumped you that morning, like I wanted to.
#3) To the kitchen manager at Nordstrom's cafe who hired me years ago on the premise that I would be in charge of re-doing the baking and pastry program, then wouldn't order me any product or let me do my job in a reasonable manner because you obviously lied to me in the first place:
I should have done you the service of telling you what an incompetent douchebag you were when I walked out with no notice.
#4) To the guy who sold us a used truck that had the transmission go out on a week later, rendering it useless:
I could see by the crappy knick-knacks in your home that you were a religious fella. I shouldn't have taken my anger out on you by sending you that gay porn. However satisfying it may have been, that was immature of me.
#5) To my sister, India, who suffered a horrendous black eye at the hands of myself and our older sister, Snowshoe, when we were kids:
Sorry we lied to mom & said you "ran into" the hammock frame. We were so shocked when she believed us, we didn't see the point of rocking the boat. Glad you still have the eye, but just think of all of the cool lady-pirate jokes we could have enjoyed if the outcome had not been so good! Eye patches can be sexy- just look at Adam Ant in his "pirate" years.
#6) To the MCI operator I was on the phone with for 45 minutes arguing about a $35 overcharge back in 1997:
I know your job sucked & that you didn't personally have anything to gain either way, but you were not the friendliest gal I've dealt with. That aside, I still shouldn't have called you a useless bitch, even if you were.
That's enough for today, stay tuned for further installments (cause' I've got a TON of em')
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Wow. What a surprise.
My laundry list this past week & a half:
Ativan- two for the flight in, three for the flight out (going home always seems longer, don't you think?). I've got a few left that I'm saving, just for fun.
Zyrtec- The urgent care doctor told me to take this for my allergies. It makes me a zombie. Literally. I feel the need to eat human flesh- crazy, huh?
Advil- All day every day last week, on & off this week for the sickness that still lingers.
Flexeril- muscle relaxers, taken only when my back is killing me, or when I REALLY need a good night of sleep. Knocks me out for like, 10 hours.
Rolaids/Maalox- Go figure, my stomach is bothering me. And I normally have an iron stomach: super spicy, rich, exotic, freakish stuff normally has no effect. Today cereal bugs me.
Multi-vitamins- Well- they're pills, aren't they?
Omega-3 capsules- I have convinced myself that these will counteract all of the bad stuff that I subject my poor body to on a regular basis. Mmmm...fish breath. Sexy.
Benadryl- Taken most of last week for what was either pink eye or an allergic reaction to fun.
Welcome to my life, a.k.a. "Valley of the Dolls".
Baby, bring mommy her little helpers & go play outside with the neighbor boy. I don't care if he eats his own poop! Mommy needs her "quiet time".
Monday, March 26, 2007
All the snow melted while I was gone, which makes me a little sad- I kind of wish we had a little more winter. It just seemed too short- I didn't even get a chance to drag out the sled or pee my name in the snow (not as easy as it sounds, being a lady & all).
One of my favorite things about spring thaw is the miscellaneous junk, once hidden by a blanket of snow, now revealed. Shoes, mittens, empty bottles, babies, etc... some left on purpose...some, who-knows-what.
Right now there is a pair of "athletic" pants, you know- nylon, stripes down the legs, drawstring waist- just sitting in a crumpled, wet ball in my front yard. Did they fall out of someone's bag? Did a couple go out for a nighttime run, feel the need for a quickie, and just forget to put their pants back on? Who leaves pants in someone's yard? Maybe someone will come along who isn't bothered by found, wet clothing and will think they struck gold. I wouldn't want to deprive anyone of the joy of a new treasure.
I'm going to leave them, in case the owner comes back, looking for their pants.
Spring thaw where I grew up was always a season of anxiety and dread for me. We lived on a 1/4 mile-long dirt driveway that, in the spring, became a nightmarish swamp. We had to barricade it, so none of my uncles would try to drive it in a drunken haze. My dad crafted a barrier out of 2x4's, and until things dried up, we had to park at the end & walk.
This truly sucked. Especially in the dark, as you could encounter a "frost boil" at any moment and disappear forever, like the nice girls gone wrong on the "Minnesota Pipeline".
Frost boil, you ask? Pray tell, what ever could that be? Some sort of skin rash?
Well, darlings, when frost thaws on a dirt road & such, it sometimes turns into a seemingly bottomless mass of jello-like ooze. You usually can't tell it from your ordinary mud until you step on it, and possibly lose a shoe...or a leg. It has a vacuum-like quality that you really have to experience to appreciate, and people have been rumored to disappear in them, UFO-style.
I'm not sure if this happened to me or my gal Blondie, as we have told the story so many times I may have just absorbed it as mine, but one of us lost a moon boot in a nasty boil. Just stuck our foot in, playfully, and...sscchhhuuuuckk! It was gone. Literally. Never seen again. Perfectly good moon boot- gone. Try explaining that one to your pissed-off Mom.
You can very well understand my fear of spring growing up. No one wants to walk, often in the dark, in the woods, for what my little kid legs thought was at least 3 miles or so, with the fear of lost footwear or worse. Much worse. Plus, not having much of a grasp of geology and basic engineering at that age, I couldn't understand why we couldn't just pave it, like the rich kids' much-shorter driveways were.
Terrified and embarrassed. Pretty much sums up spring as a kid for me.
I am going to go and lay on my short, paved driveway now & kiss it.
Then I'm putting on my new pants & dancing on it.
Tomorrow: Mud monsters and how to protect yourself from them (first in a 2-part series).
Sunday, March 25, 2007
I love you Freeport, Bahamas. St. Paul is jealous, but what has that bitch ever done for me? Huh?
Snow? Mortgage? Hot, humid summers and bitter winters? And where exactly are the mopeds?
Anyways, looking on the sunny side of things:
View from our balcony.
One of the many beaches we visited. This one was in Lucaya National Park. There was a beach bar here called "Bishops" where we devoured super-fresh fish and the local brew, Kalik beer. We drank many, many, many Kaliks this week.
Yours truly, feeling not-so-great at the beach. The illness I started getting before leaving sort of stuck with me all week. Usually I was fine, but this day I was a little wiped & just laid in the shade.
Not pictured: my pineapple rum-mango concoction in a bottle on the sand. My liver quits for no illness.
Our badass moped gang, the Flaming Honkeys.
No one was more surprised than me that, not only was Olivia Newton-John NOT here, but there was absolutely nowhere to roller-skate. Imagine my embarrassment. I guess I looked pretty stupid in orange spandex hotpants, a halter top & purple pom-poms on my skates. Don't even ask about the tan lines- sheesh.
The happiest toes in the world.
I am running away from home and going back tomorrow. My new identity is Alessandra Von Poontanavich, the elusive & beautiful Massingil heiress. I will try to write, whenever my socialite's calendar allows- and as long as it's not "cotillion" season, because I do hate to miss a party, my darlings.
Picture me, waving regally from a yacht...
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
But I'm having the best freaking vacation EVER. Fab hotel, fantastic, not-too-touristy island, mopeds and caves and beaches...oh my! Even the flights were fine with my lovely pharmeceutical friends. I only have time right now to use the computer at the "business center" of our hotel as we are waiting for our 8:00 dinner reservations at some Japanese restaurant at the Westin hotel across the street.
*You can carry cocktails anywhere.
*No one has an "agenda".
*The beaches are sooooo amazing here. Pristine, turquoise water & white sand.
*Jesus, everything is amazing here- even my "travelling snob" friends are impressed. Stick that in your multi-stamped passport & smoke it!
*We watched some trophy wife get busted at the pool yesterday by her doctor husband (I'm not sure how we know that, but we do). She was all over these 4 middle-aged-to-old leatherfaces in speedos. Literally draping herself on the REALLY old one. Freaking hilarious.
*Mr. Whiskeymarie drank a blended girl-drink out of a coconut last night, "Gilligan's Island" style. He's comfortable with his heterosexuality.
*I love vacations. I need more of them.
I think our travel friends(the ones we don't know so well yet), who unfortunately scored the room right below ours, heard our afternoon acrobatics yesterday- I don't care if they did.
Pictures to follow- sorry I'm tropical, drunk (actually not at the moment, but give me an hour), warm and happy. You'll get over it.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
I'm off tomorrow a.m. for the lovely Bahamas. I'll be thinking of all of you whilst I'm gone. I promise to take pictures, hopefully some doozies.
If I get a chance to post, I will.
Otherwise, Adieu to you, my blossoms, for the next week. Try to have fun without me.
Really, in my life I guess it's not that far out of the realm of possibilities.
35 minutes of ripping hair from it's roots in my most sensitive of "parts" was not as much fun as I thought it would be. Yes, you spread 'em. Yes, EVERY nook & cranny is invaded. Yes, it's red and swollen for...well, it still is. I'm pretty sure my gynecologist has spent less time down there.
And, with tip, I spent $75 for this. I am a masochistic retard. Yes sir.
And, now I hardly recognize my old friend. It's a little "porn star". Or at least "amateur porn enthusiast".
I didn't go completely cue ball, but there ain't much left. I don't think I will take it to this level next time. I don't like to feel so alienated from my friend, my now-violated cooch.
Though, give me a few days & I'll forget. I'll probably have already scheduled my next appointment.
Next time, just a little off the sides, please. Maybe a little off the top. Oh, and the back...
Friday, March 16, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Anywhere you can get deep-fried pickles is a.o.k. with me.
We had a great night, but I left with mixed feelings.
If you haven't figured out already, I am in the "food" field- have been for a while now. I owned a restaurant (which always garnered very good reviews) for a couple (three) years, which, in this big/small town, gives you a bit of "clout".
Now, sometimes people know/recognize me, and I won't say no to a comped cocktail, appetizer or what have you (which I graciously accepted this evening), but now that I'm kind of out of the loop, it makes me a little sad. I don't know if people respect or pity me- and I'm quite sure no one will ever tell me which is which. I purposely take a low profile- I've never been one for shameless self-promotion (like so many people I know in this business), but at the same time I feel like I did something HUGE that most people won't and can't understand.
I sacrificed everything -everything- and took the biggest chance I've ever taken.
And I'm a huge risk-taker, for the record.
I can't say I regret any of it, or that I think I failed (I don't), but I just don't know where I fit in anymore in this little "world" these days.
I'm really still not ready to go into all the gloriously gory details of those 3+ years, but let me tell you this much- if you've read the book, it puts "Kitchen Confidential" to shame. Debaucherous and fucked up doesn't really touch the tip of this drug/booze/sex-infested mess. Some day you'll get the "holy-shit this is juicy" details...but not just yet.
Tonight somehow made me feel special and humbled at the same time. I don't know where I belong in my world, or in my profession.
Although, I am once again feeling the urge to divide & conquer, so...
This could be trouble.
P.S. Tomorrow...bikini wax. Details to follow...
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
I brought it on myself, I have no one but stupid me to blame.
I'm getting sick. I can feel it getting worse by the minute. Ick, dammit, ick.
I kept bragging how I had gone all winter with out so much as a drippy nose or scratchy throat, and now I'm being punished by the god of vacations.
Now, I am feeling sorry for myself. Indeed, I am thoroughly immersed in wallowing at the moment.
Let it be known that I have not had a vacation like this EVER. I am a proud & confirmed workaholic, and the longest vacation I've taken in the last 8 years (where I've flown somewhere & stayed at a hotel, not on someone's spare futon) has been 5 days. Actually, more like 4-1/2. I am not a spoiled vacation whore, nor have I ever been. I let my passport lapse years ago because I realized that there was no chance of me going anywhere besides St. Paul or Duluth (or maybe...Wisconsin!), possibly ever.
So now, I am taking the big step, taking a full week, got a new passport, I'm flying, renting a nice hotel and basking in the beauty of it- and I feel like shit.
I was already down dispite the impending sicky-ness. My job is eating my soul a little, I'm bored with the everyday pieces of just...being, and I can't seem to find anything real to be excited about, vacation not included.
I keep waiting for something exceptional to happen.
I know, I'm supposed to MAKE it happen, blah, blah, blah.
I just have to think that isn't entirely how it works. I shouldn't have to constantly MAKE things happen. Can't they just...happen? Just once in a while?
Tonight I'll put a magic bean under my pillow, and tomorrow will be the day I've been waiting for- the day it begins.
Now, I know I put that bean here somewhere- maybe it's at the bottom of my purse with my keys and rolaids.
Monday, March 12, 2007
1) Too many protein bars = gas & angry belly
2) Me trying to pack "light" is like trying to shove a greased monkey into a wetsuit.
3) Coke zero really DOES taste like real Coke. Really.
4) Mullets are neither "rockin it old-school" nor "retro", Just sad. Even in Scanlon, MN.
5) People need to write more letters. It's nice to see hand-written correspondence occasionally, instead of "fonts".
6) I'm getting Valium for my trip.
Pharmeceuticals = happy flying Whiskeymarie
7) Buckets of caffeine will not make you more focused. Go figure. I'm fidgeting like Joe Cocker on crack right now.
8) What? (see #7)
9) When did giant, colorful plastic earrings come back in style...and why?
10) I love my job, I hate my job, I love my job, I hate my job, I love my job, I hate bullshit office politics.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
From the beginning:
I drove the 2.5 hours north yesterday. I have driven this path so many times I have the billboards memorized: Pro-lifers, pro-lifers, Hardees, anti-meth...and snowmobiles. And that's just between Pine City & Hinckley.
I hate that drive.
However, unlike the previous 5,348 times I've driven this route, this time there was some excitement:
Then, back to the drive. Billboards, fast-food and snow. Yay.
After a quick stop at the in-laws, I ditched Mr. Whiskeymarie & went off to my sister's place to borrow some things for my trip. My sister, Snowshoe, and her husband, Camper, have just adopted a new boy. Jasper is pretty hairy, pees outside, sniffs butts and licks faces- they couldn't be prouder parents. I think I love him too.
I may kidnap him someday, so watch out guys.
After nabbing 2 suitcases & 2 sarongs, and retrieving 2 of my cookbooks and a sweater (which I remember being bigger. Did Mr. WM's J. Crew wool rollneck make an unscheduled visit to the dryer? Hmmm?), I was off...again.
Next stop: Waffle's house on the outskirts of town.
Blondie was already there, doing one of our favorite things: the pre-game lounge. It's always nice to take a few minutes and relax before heading out for the evening, if for no other reason than to make note of the last moment you remember before drinking yourself stupid.
Often, this is when we have the first cocktail of the evening, which Blondie was already doing (windsor-7), but I had nominated myself to be the DD for the night (a rare occurrence indeed), so none for me just yet.
Once the foursome was complete (me, Waffle, Blondie & Ms. Hotpants) it was off to Barnum.
Which, if you know the area, you know that this is a 45-minute drive back the way I just came.
Oh well, whatever my sweets want for their b-days, they get. I would drive to Texas & pick up ribs, slaw and a cowboy, if that's what they wanted- I love my girls that much.
We went to a restaurant there called the Hanging Horn. I had heard a little about this place from Hotpants & a few others- It seemed interesting. It's in an old camp of some sort- log buildings, antiques, dirt roads & such. Quaint, cute.
It's in the middle of freaking nowhere-and, as usual, fate smiled down on me & we got lost. Nothing is more disconcerting than a pitch-black night (no moon), dead-end, mud-slicked dirt roads & a bunch of giggling girls in a car, lost. All we needed were thin white cotton nighties and mullet-haired boyfriends with muscle cars to complete the cliche'. Jason? Is that you? Freddie? Is that a chain-saw I hear?
Dinner done (it was o.k, steaks, pasta, walleye- standard Northern MN fare. But not cheap & the service truly sucked), we were then off to...
Yes, you read that right-Scanlon.
Scanlon isn't much, as some of you may already know. It's one of those places that is really just dead space between two or three actual towns that no one wants to claim, so at some point they just drew a circle on a map & said, "Hear-ye, hear-ye, we proclaim this tiny parcel of dead space...Scanlon." It consists of a gas station, a few bars, a liquor store, a few houses, and a titty bar. That's pretty much it.
We went to the River Inn, hoping to see/gawk at people from our hometown, as we can usually count on a few "Holy shit-look at her- she still has a perm" and "What the fuck happened to his face?" comments coming out of our mouths during these visits. Last night was slim pickins, though. Only 2 people we recognized: One girl a year older than us wearing (no lie) flannel p.j. bottoms as pants and looking about 10-15 years older than she actually is (with that permed & frosted mullet-style hair many girls rocked in 1988), and a guy we graduated with who we see all the time.
The highlight of the River Inn was the live band: Live Bait.
Awesome name, guys.
They were fantastically bad- a Great White cover here, a Billy Joel cover there- but pretty much what we expected. The bass player had one of those headsets like the people who work at the Gap wear, and he kept coming into the "audience" to interact with his "fans".
We just tried to avoid eye contact- kind of like you do when you encounter someone dressed like a sandwich handing out coupons for the sub shop they have the misfortune of working for.
It's just too sad. I can't look.
Several cocktails for them, a couple light beers for me later...
Next stop: the Runway bar in Hermantown.
I was promised that people-watching at the Runway would not disappoint.
Holy shit, they weren't lying.
A potpourri of humanity: White trash, college kids, aging divorcees, NASCAR enthusiasts, pseudo "biker" guys, sad lonelyhearts, drunks and a wedding party, just for flavor. Plus, another cover band.
Sit back & enjoy the show, folks.
I was kind of hoping for a bar fight, but I had to settle for the crazy drunk girl draped on the possibly syphilis-infested biker guy- flirting, groping & pushing her tits in various faces one minute, bawling like the homecoming queen runner-up the next.
Most everyone there seemed drunkety-drunk-drunk. REALLY drunkety-drunk-drunk.
I kind of wish we had stuck around until closing, for the entertainment, but the hot tub at Waffle's awaited. And I was sick of driving.
So, back to Waffle's: opening of presents (we give the best gifts. Both b-day girls got piles of booty: tons of Aveda stuff, gift cards, purses, sexy undies, vintage kitchenware & scary clown books are just the tip of the iceberg we call birthdays), more cocktails (mostly for semi-sober me), some (ahem...) "possibly legal in other parts of the world" substances, and hot tubbing.
Then about 4:00 in the morning...sleep.
Wake up, turn around & drive 2.5 hours home.
Next weekend: Repeat much of above, then fly away to do the same thing in a foreign country.
I have to drive up again Friday.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
I love my porcelain skin, generally. And I know very few who can claim skin pastier or whiter than mine- except for Blondie. She wins, hands down. Props to you, my lovely fellow "delicate" creature.
However-let's get this one crystal clear, my little blossoms- I do not believe in roasting your precious skin in one of those ovens/turkey roasters/tanning beds. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
To remind you of the fun that could be yours if you keep that nonsense up, fake n' bakers:
When I choose to create my illusion, I choose to do it serial-killer style:
Put the lotion on the skin, bitch!
Let it be known that said lotion and myself do not have a good relationship, and I have tried them all- from $5 to $45 dollars- they all smell like cat piss.
Proof: I went to dinner with my girl Lil' A. a few summers ago. We looked gorgeous- freshly showered, made up, sexy little outfits. Nailed it, as she and I compete a little so we try extra hard.
We decided to go to the new "it" place, where we had a few friends/acquaintances working. We settled in, ordered drinkies & food, and basically basked in our fabulousness.
We were being waited on by Bad Waitress, a friend of my other girl, Big A. Didn't really know this chick, but in my minimal encounters with her I knew enough to know that she was not my kind o'gal. Didn't know her enough to hate her, just...you know.
We were pretty sure several excellent specimens of manhood sitting near us were checking us out, as some of them kept turning around & peeking.
F.Y.I.- Yes, I had applied a nice layer of some fancy self-tanner before going out, for just a little "glow".
Fast forward a few weeks:
Sitting around with Lil A. & Big A., discussing said restaurant.
Big A, master of subtlety, pipes up- "Bad Waitress said one of you guys had really bad B.O!"
We were showered, primped...we had HEELS on, for christ's sake!
No way, not us, we defended.
Conversation ended, we moved on.
Only a week or so later did I realize it was me. I was the stench offender. The boys were probably turning to see who the stank 'ho was.
I tried to explain that it wasn't the result of bad pit/feet/crotch hygene, just bad judgment. Then I just gave up.
B.O? Whatever, I've been called worse things than "rife with stinkioscity".
Why can't this crap smell better? Or does it just react with my lack of melanin and produce a offending stink wholly unique to me?
But, It's all I've got.
So, yet another year where every once in a while the people around me wonder what's wrong with me now that I've let my personal hygene "slip".
I'm not telling, either. I'd rather they think I'm dirty and smelly. Maybe they'll stay the hell away & I can get some work done, for once.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
Move along now, nothing to see here, folks.
I had to stay home from work yesterday because of my jazzercise audition mishap, but that really wasn't interesting.
Maybe tomorrow will be the day that changes my life.
The big day.
Kind of like the day when I was 11 and I won the giant easter basket from the gas station by my house. I guessed 10,000 popcorn kernels in the jar and there was something like 10, 045. That day was awesome.
Or maybe, I'll get up, eat, blah, blah, blah...you know the rest.
Not every day can be a "giant easter basket" day, you know.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
I like to work out at home. I can't stand to be around other people when I'm jumping around, grunting and sweaty. Lately, with all the snow and my lack of interest in "winter sports" (whatever the hell those are, all I know is it doesn't sound good) I've been doing videos in my living room. I love kickboxing, but the routines I have are too short (30 minutes, give or take a nose blow or potty break) so I've been supplementing with aerobics.
Yes- good, old fashioned, 80's style aerobics.
Headband, Reebok hi-tops, shiny spandex, full-on makeup & legwarmers optional. Yeah, optional for LOSERS. Winners don't do anything halfway, man.
So...I'm jumping, jogging, jacking and "whoo!", "yeah", "uh-huh"-ing my way through this high-impact nightmare when...
My ankle made a crunching sound as I was dropping to the floor in a most unladylike fashion. I couldn't breathe for a minute, but all I could think was, "I hope I still can do some crunches". Idiot.
I remember when I wasn't as clumsy as a sitcom with Tony Danza. I was a dancer. 12 years. I have the toe shoes and bad knees to prove it. My first recital was to the "Copacabana" at the Holiday Center in Duluth for some event I can't even remember. I think I was 12. I wore a shiny red leotard and an equally shiny yellow skirt trimmed with sequins. My dance teacher was obsessed with the "copacabana"- even then I knew it was unhealthy, but I liked her & forged on with the show.
Nancylaine Anderson, much like Lola and her feather, always wore a flower in her hair. She was the most exotic woman I had ever met- tall, always in head to toe black, long dark hair and as graceful at 50-something as anyone could ever hope to be. She was beautiful, inspiring and funny- and she thought I was talented. I was o.k.
She had several different "studios" around town through the years, but her last one was the one she had the longest. And even with falling-apart floors, really loud radiators and probable asbestos, it was by far the nicest. She occupied the space over what is now the Electric Fetus- I think there are offices or something like that there now. When she first opened, the Strand Theater (the last of the great porno theaters in town) was still open. I still remember the night some douchebag hit on my polyester pant-wearing, knitting bag-toting Mom. She thought that was pretty freaking funny. Almost as funny when a hooker tried to pick up my Dad in Jamaica- with my Mom standing right next to him.
I wonder where NancyLaine is now? Is she still alive?
I guess I should find out.
I lost touch with her when I went to college, and I don't think she ever really forgave me for taking "Modern" dance at UMD. She considered it undisciplined. It was. Dirty bare feet really aren't as graceful or pretty as pink satin toe shoes.
So...long story short, I twisted the shit out of my ankle & fell down. My ankle looks like someone smacked it with a baseball bat.
I decided if I can't work out, I'll just get a swimsuit like this:
Sunday, March 4, 2007
In exactly two weeks I will be in a plane, minutes from landing in the Bahamas. One WHOLE WEEK of sun (and sunscreen- I'm practically albino), cocktails with fruit & umbrellas, lounging and (hopefully) some hot karaoke action. This will be my "15 years too late" Spring Break.
I can't wait for the beer bong...
Did I mention that I'm a REALLY bad flier? Ask anyone who has had the misfortune of flying with me in the last 10 years. I fucking hate flying. I can't relax- all I can think is "when is this piece of crap plane going to drop out of the sky, and what embarrassing things will they find in my house after I'm incinerated in the flaming wreckage?" I, like most marginally sane people, do not want to die. I especially don't want to die in a plane crash. It is very low on the list of ways I'd go out if I were lucky enough to choose.
If you've read the book "Stiff" you'd understand. I really, really, REALLY should not have read that book. Didn't help one bit.
My doctor gave me Xanax for my last trip- totally useless. Even with a couple glasses of wine. Nothing.
This time I want horse tranquilizers. And Valium. That should do it.
I can do this- the trip is worth it.
If you're on the same flight as me I won't be hard to spot, though. I'll be the one rocking back and forth in my seat, blinking too much and counting from one to ten in between sips of wine in a plastic cup.
The crazy one no one wants to sit next to.
But, she's still a good time, even if she's a big tease. And she likes Sapporo as much as I do.
It's her birthday this week. We will be celebrating both hers & Ms. Hotpants up North this coming Saturday. Getting older is not so fun but "birthday nights" out are, even if we don't do things anymore like saving a giant meatball in Ms. Hotpant's freezer, only to take it out for it's own "birthday" each year to try to get our friends to eat him.
I kind of miss Mr. Meatball. He died far too young.
Happy early birthday spankings, toots.
Friday, March 2, 2007
I spent 1.0 hours shoveling today.
Not exactly a day of memories to pass on for future generations. Though I did find some sexy, somewhat hoochie-esque "snakeskin" cork wedges for $13 at Rosedale. I will wear the crap out of these...in about 3 months.
I was actually birthday shopping for my girls Blondie & Ms. Hotpants, who have the Feb. & March b-days in our little clique. I bought Blondie gift certificates to Spencer gifts & Wal-Mart, and a helper monkey. I hope she likes Mr. Wiggles. Ms. Hotpants got a subscription to NASCAR monthly and a Korean baby. I know she wants a girl, and nothing is too extravagant for my ladies.
I am physically incapable of shopping for that long without buying myself a little token of my affection, so... the shoes, a top (returning it- weirdest fitting thing I've bought in a while but the fitting room-check girls made me feel contaminated), two cute thongs at $2 each- which is within my limit for undies-$5. I don't get spending more on something that spends that much time rubbing against my butthole. Think about it. And I bought stickers.
I love stickers. And I don't care what you think about my love for them. Stickers make me happy. Remember getting star stickers? Do you?
If all I need to feel validated is a tiny smiley face, or muppet, or butterfly, or monkey- what's the harm in that? Try it- you'll see. Stickers = all is well in the world.
So, that's it.
That was my day.
I feel guilty that I didn't do more with my newly snow-liberated self today.
Although, this guilt, much like dorito-breath and Corey Feldman's career- this too shall pass.
Now, some wine.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
I am a lucky girl indeed- the last 2 hours of the marathon meeting day were canceled due to weather.
And I have tomorrow off.
Feel free to hate me. You're entitled. Though, if the white stuff keeps up like this- we'll ALL have tomorrow off.
Which house are we building erotic snowmen at? I'll bring the hot toddys...