Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Confession #3: I had to look up "harbinger" in the dictionary to make sure I was using it correctly.
I, Whiskeymarie VonPartypants, harbinger of all things cool and awesome...I used to freaking love Clive Barker (and still kind of do).
Yes, I said it. I willingly devoured the gory, strange writings that typically appealed more to nerdtacular boys with unhealthy addictions to Doungeons and Dragons and creative masturbation practices than to punk rock-ish girls in rural Minnesota in the 80's. I've read most of his books, I've (for better or for worse, usually worse) seen most of the movies (yeah, I'll take a pass on Hellraisers #2-9, thank you very much), and I even spent a number of hours in the early 90's waiting in line at Rosedale Mall for the honor of having Mr. Barker sign my copy of Weaveworld. I remember that he was very nice, kind of short, and not at all seeming like the kind of guy who could come up with some of the fucked up gore that he has come up with. He seemed more like the kind of guy that would write sensitive poetry about butterflies and tea than the kind of guy who regularly writes about evisceration and limbs being lopped off casually, like how one would cut apart a chicken for dinner.
I started watching Midnight Meat Train just the other night, a movie that I had been pestering the Mr. to get for me from Netflix, much to his chagrin. I'm only halfway through, but from what I've seen so far, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that it's not terrible. Considering the monumental stinkiocity of pretty much all of his other movies (Hellraiser #1 being the only exception- perfectly cheesy, sort of campy, and still appropriately scary), that's saying a lot. Bradley Cooper sure is easy on the eyes, and Vinnie Whatshisname was perfectly cast: almost no dialogue and creepy as hell. I think I'll finish watching it today- yes, I'll be the one sitting inside on a sunny, hot July day watching a movie about butchering humans for meat.
Oh, and while we're on topic of embarrassing confessions: Yesterday I decided put on eye cream while I was going pee, and I thought to myself, "Hey! I'm multi-tasking!".
Set the bar low, Whiskey. Set the bar low.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
A few random observations from my first 6 weeks of sweating profusely from every crease I own in the company of strangers, AKA going to the Y:
*To the oddly-shaped gal who seems to always be there when I am and seems to never, ever leave...
Here's the deal: Tights do not equal pants.
Did you hear that? Did it make sense? Do any of those words exist in your dancewear-as-haute-couture world?
While I totally admire your commitment to such a daring and bold look, I have to say, um...not so much with the execution of said "look". Semi-sheer footless tights over granny panties? No, no, no.
My kind but firm suggestion is this: before leaving for the gym, stop and take a good, long look in a full-length mirror. If you can see a shockingly accurate outline of your underpants (including the tag), and if your legs look better suited to heels and a party dress, and if you can clearly see where the "control top" portion of your "pants" begins...then I suggest changing before you go. And yes- yes I know you can afford real workout pants/shorts. I've seen your ipod and tenners- they're nicer than mine. You've got no excuse, Ms. Grannypantyhose, unless poor judgment sprinkled with cookoo counts as an excuse these days.
*I was forced to blow my nose in my gym towel the other day while on the elliptical. I was also sweating like a heavyset, middle aged Eastern European man with impressively excessive body hair on vacation at dance camp somewhere near the Equator. To the non-sweating, not huffing and puffing all asthma-like gym-goer next to me that day, I apologize. Seriously- you shouldn't have had to witness that.
*And what about the cute little 20-something Asian-American girl who seems to have the superhuman ability to run for 30 minutes, take a hip-hop aerobics class, then cool down with intermediate yoga, all without so much as a drop of perspiration or even a second of bargaining with the Universe for mercy? I'm totally trying to not hate you, but keep it up and I'm going to start slipping lard supplements into your water bottle, OK?
*I was on the elliptical (again) the other day next to a dude who looked exactly like Hulk Hogan circa 1987:
Seriously- Yellow head scarf, red tank top, yellow Zubaz-like pants and the handlebar mustache. The whole freaking shebang. I wanted to ask him how he was doing since the divorce, but he was the only person in the gym sweating more than I was, so I knew that it would be best to just leave him be. Pretty much the last thing you want to do when you're drenched in your own bodily fluids is carry on a conversation about your feelings.
*Also, in no particular order:
Geriatric boobies, Creepy dude that draws odd pictures in a child's notebook while waiting for a certain piece of equipment, Holy shit there are a lot of dudes that lift weights while watching themselves in the mirrors!, The one guy who keeps moving the damn fans despite the "Do not move the fan" signs, Me plotting to kill fan guy for hogging not one, not two, but THREE freaking fans on a 90 degree day when the AC seemed to have given up the will to live, The lady who doesn't wear headphones while working out yet still seems to have some sort of music in her head judging by her insane giggling and singing, Me accidentally taking home several of the gym-provided towels and being too embarrassed to bring them back so they're just sitting in my dining room all smelly, Running into a Lance Armstrong-esque coworker who has like, 8% body fat and does redonkulous triathlons and stuff right after I had a particularly sweaty and red-faced workout and had to make "conversation", More geriatric nudity, and finally- the icing on the cake...
...I'm pretty sure I saw the nutsack of a 60-something dude when it peeked out from his very short shorts. I'm hoping I regain my vision sometime soon, but if I have to see that again I'll pass on this whole "sight" thing as it may be totally overrated.
Speaking of getting physical, the reason the word exists:
Me-fucking-ow. Adam, I'll take you, your Ants and your smouldering sexiness anytime, any day, any way.
OK, I have to go now. I'm all misty in my lady-bits and it sure as hell ain't from working out.
Happy early Wednesday, my glistening, rippling six-packs of sexiness. Happy early Wednesday.