Tomorrow I am planning on attending a workout Burlesque dance class with a friend. I simply cannot wait to see how much material I can get for my blog. I am about as talented dance-wise as your bald, middle-aged uncle, who thinks he has moves (he also still thinks his cellphone belt clip is what the cool kids have). If I wanted to, I could make a video of my dancing, upload it onto YouTube and, easily, I could be the next William Hung. I am BAD. BAD.
Why am I doing this then? Well, I would actually like to find my sexy. I know it is in there. It’s just hiding under my insecurity, my spastic muscles, and my inability to find anything resembling a rhythm. If I try hard enough, learn to count and move at the same time, and allow my body to move to the beat, it is possible that someday I will not look like I am having a seizure when I am attempting to dance. Maybe.
In honor of this dance class tomorrow, I am re-posting a piece I did on my blog I began while living in BFE Elko. I took a Zumba class and the result was pure hilarity.
I am such a masochist. I am also a really horrible dancer. Yes, I tried Zumba for the second time, despite the fact that I can’t dance for anything. I actually stepped on my own two left feet. Let me try to express to the fullest of my ability how bad I am at moving my body in an even remotely sexy manner…
First, I thought that the people I was going with were amateurs, like me. WRONG. One girl minored in dance in college. She looked better than the instructor. Now I know why she wanted to be in the front! What was I thinking agreeing to that?! Seeing myself front and center next to JLO did nothing for my self esteem. Then, to my right, another dancer who was counting the steps. Counting the what? You mean there are steps in dancing? And you have to count them? Behind me, a friend who was not afraid to let out her sexy wild woman self and let me tell you, she was truly shaking it. Me? I was stiff as a board and I had as much rhythm as an albatross. I looked like I was having a stroke at one point. It was bad, really bad. There was this move where you had to bend your knees and jump forward, sexily…LORD. Probably the worst move involved shaking our asses as we bent forward. I felt like I should apologize to the person behind me. My ass didn’t stop shaking for an hour after class.
Besides being surrounded by supposed “amateurs”, again, thanks guys… I was also surrounded by mirrors. As I mentioned above, I was persuaded to stand front and center, in front of the mirror. It would have been half alright if I didn’t have to be reminded every second how truly awful I was. I had to WATCH myself. It was truly nightmarish. At one point I decided it would be best to just laugh instead of maintain my determined face; that way no one would think I was actually serious with my ridiculous moves.
Next, dancing is EXHAUSTING, folks! What the hell? I understand now why all those club addicts are so skinny. Oh, and why Britney Spears has thighs the size of my big head. I was in agony. My thighs and calves were burning and my knees wanted to give in. I was dripping sweat and just looked a mess. I made the mistake to look over at “Miss Minored in Dance” and she was glistening beautifully with sweat. Grrr. I was so exhausted that I soon couldn’t do two things at once. Move my arms and legs? At the same time? Forget it…
HOWEVER, and this is a big however (notice how it is capitalized), I actually enjoyed myself and got a hell of a workout. I looked physically challenged, yes, but there were others similar to me (none quite as bad, but close). The third (most recent) time I attended I went with a friend who was more like me and we laughed and laughed and laughed at each other. My abs got a good workout as well as my growing thighs.
So, if you attend the Zumba class Fridays, in Elko, I apologize in advance. My spastic ass will be in attendance and my advice to you is to try not to look too much. I think I am getting better…
Tag: blogging
Front Butt Thighs
I frequently wonder how it would feel to have decent looking inner thighs. I hate my inner thighs with the passion of the gods. I hide them behind long layering tanks and Grandma bathing suit skirts. I’m pretty sure my own boyfriend has not seen them in the light of day. If I want to pretend I’m sexy, I tuck them between my thighs and clamp my legs shut. I now understand what transvestites go through. I feel your “tuck and pray” pain, guys.
I check out other women’s crotchal-area with envy, like a total perv. Instead of salivating over another woman’s handbag or cute haircut, I totally crave their smooth thighs. I am envious of women who can wear skinny jeans without all of the layering tanks and spanks required to make me not look like a bean bag with a head.
I feel like my saggy thighs are totally my mom’s fault, along with my prematurely graying hair and manly calves. I’m basically a carbon-copy of my mom, right down to the swaying thigh skin. If my mom wasn’t the most amazing woman to walk this Earth, I would have a real bone to pick with her. Instead, we just complain together as we make brownies and homemade fudge sauce.
This past Friday, I hosted an It Works party. If you don’t recognize the name, you will know what I’m talking about when I say miracle body wraps. Yup, I got wrapped, along with some friends. It was part hilarious-fun-female-bonding, and part I-hate-my-body-don’t-look-at-me-why-was-I-born.
Let me explain.
Before the wrap is the essential, “before picture”. It’s mandatory. I recruited a long-time friend who’s seen me in my birthday suit and at my absolute worst. Who cares if she sees my frog skin crotch? So, she snapped quite a few pictures from multiple angles and really got down in there. I was terrified to see her work.
And rightfully fucking so.
When I say it was disgusting, you really have no idea. Some of you may wonder how it could be possible one is not aware of what they look like naked. Well, it’s possible when you avoid the mirror like the plague, while naked, that’s fucking how.
One picture she took confused me. It was an ass. It was a really saggy ass with dimples and pimples, the whole smorgasbord. MY INNER THIGHS LOOK LIKE AN ASS.
I have front butt thighs and…
I can’t. I can’t even. What else can I say? There’s nothing more to say. I HAVE A BUTT. ON MY THIGHS.
After some time to accept this disgusting realization, I’ve decided my front butt has got to go. I’m now even more glad that I spent $150 on body wraps, fat inhibitors, and tightening gel from It Works. I’m also going to be kicking my yoga practice into high gear. Perhaps, I’ll dust off my beach cruiser and take it for a spin. Anything, anything to get rid of my second butt. Anything.
I have a picture of a before and after of my thighs, but the thought of sharing it with all the world is more terrifying than those arriving-at-school-naked-on-the-first-day-of-school dreams. No. Just, no. So, here is proof I wrapped my nasty thighs. You’re welcome.
Thank you, Pinterest, for your endless array of memes and ecards to make me feel better about myself. Laughing through the pain, yo.
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Super Wimp
One of my new favorite bloggers I am following inspired my new blog post today. RobynChristi posted about being a scaredy-cat. I can relate ALL TOO WELL. Anyone who knows me, knows I am the person who checks the door 45 times before leaving. Usually that’s not enough, because I’m certain I was finally robbed and the door will be wide open, so I go back to check once more (do I want to admit that this is usually after I’ve gotten in the car, buckled up, found my chosen Pandora station, and started the car?)
I count the walk back to my motel, by the airport in Oakland, from the Bart station, on NYE 2014 as the most terrifying thing that ever happened to me. I was certain the entire time that I would be shanked. I also have never walked so fast in my entire life. In wedges. My leg muscles were cramped up for days.
The house I lived in in Elko was situated on a lonely dirt road, far from the main road. Getting out of my car at night was terrifying. It was pitch black and there were so many glowing eyes everywhere (they were jackrabbits, but still…) I would run so fast, once my feet hit the dirt, I basically flew to the door. My heart would be pounding out of my chest the whole terrifying journey. Once I was safely inside, I was sure I evaded certain death. This was EVERYDAY.
If I could lock myself into my bedroom at night with several different locks, I would. Two different chain locks would make me feel best, but I always figure that’s overkill. Summer proves a challenge for me, as it is too hot, so the door has.to.stay.open. OPEN.
Summer is not a good time for my nerves.
Am I the only weirdo who is certain that robbers, boogeyman, and psychopaths can sense when someone leaves their bedroom door open and that’s how they choose their victims? Leaving my door open at night is like a huge, welcoming invite to come eat me alive. I just can’t deal.
Some nights, I try to shut and lock the door when I know my boyfriend is fast asleep. It usually doesn’t work, because sleeping in a pool of his own sweat usually wakes him up, and then he gets mad that I did it again. He thinks I’m a psycho. He’s suggested therapy more times than I want to admit.
So, I think if there were a Guinness record for “Most Terrified Person”, I would get it hands-down. I’m not sure if I should be mildly proud or immensely embarrassed. Either way, I’m already counting the days until it starts getting cool enough at night so I can barricade myself in the bedroom and get a decent night’s sleep.
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One Liners Challenge
I was nominated by Rachel’s Whims to add some of my flavor to this “One Liner” challenge. I feel like a real blogger being nominated to do cool blogging shit. I was also nominated by another blogger for another challenge, and now that I know how to tag in my posts, I will be doing that one shortly. Aren’t I so blogging-cool? Anywhoo…
Here’s the rules.
1. Write one line in the ongoing story, in italics.
2. Pass the challenge onto the next victim/Nominee.
3. Link back to your nominator.
4. Link back to Me, Waffles, if you could please, this could be very interesting.
5. Copy and paste all the previous story and add your line.
And the story goes …
It was a warm sunny day and sea was an almost transparent shade of blue.
I lay there, watching the waves lap on the shore, a drink in hand, a tear rolling down my cheek.
I stand up yelling at that boy who threw this load of sand into my eyes and my drink when he jumped over me.
I then grabbed my water gun, running fast after him, I was laughing, he was jumping over people to escape. He turned to look at me, but didn’t see the two children in front of him carrying two delicious looking ice cream cones.
As he barreled into the children, knocking the ice-cream from their grasp, I caught one of the scoops of pistachio and hurled it at his head as I fell laughing to the ground!
And what luck, his mouth was open and he gulped down the scoop, spitting nuts rapid-fire style like a rabid squirrel! And wouldn’t you know it, a squirrel leaped from a nearby tree, performing a flying maneuver worthy of the best traveling circus family, catching the nuts in his mouth in mid-air!!
It was all too fantastical and I wondered for a moment if I’d forgotten to take my medication earlier…or perhaps I took too much!
I opened my eyes with a jolt, peeled my face from the sticky plastic beach lounger, and rubbed my eyes-sun and too many mojitos make for ridiculous dreams!
I nominate babysteps22 for the challenge! Good luck, dahling!
This challenge was originally started by a super sweet blogger, wafflemethis!
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The Struggle Continues
The other night, my boyfriend and I loafed on the couch, watched 5 episodes of Naked and Afraid, and ate an entire pineapple. Let me tell you something about pineapple…that tasty, deceptive shit expands in your stomach. After it expands and bloats your stomach to the point where you look like you’re carrying twins, it gives you horrific acid reflux. All night long, I really regretted not just eating a stupid candy bar, because candy bars just give me the shits.
I consider myself a fairly intelligent person, I will give you a run for your money on Trivia Crack, and I know the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re. Yet, I cannot seem to learn that eating an entire pint of Chunky Monkey will make me feel like dog poop for 3 days. I seriously never learn.
I do know some things. I know that I can’t be trusted with anything remotely tasty in my house. Like a crack addict, if it’s around, it’s going down in a big way. When I go to my parents’ house, I riffle around in the cabinets looking for what I know is always there. I usually end up eating a couple Little Debbie’s and a Tasty Kake, if I’m lucky. I try not to frequent my parents’ house. For shame…
This is why, at any time, I have a can of garbanzo beans and some stale tortilla chips in my cupboard. That’s it. I know I won’t be desperate enough to crack open an 8 year-old can of beans, so…
Last night, I was pinning healthy recipe after healthy recipe on my “Healthy Yummies” board on my Pinterest. I don’t know why I spend my time pinning healthy crap, I almost never make any of it…Well, I found one that looked so good, and super easy. It consisted of skim milk, light cool whip, ice and…one Oreo.
It sounded so light, and not too gluttonous. I felt an immense longing for a “diet” Oreo shake. Then, a depressing realization set in. These healthy shakes, will never, ever remain ‘healthy’ so long as I have to buy an entire package of Oreos to make them. The recipe calls for just one Oreo, but I know a couple more will fall into the blender, accidentally. Then, I know for a fact that the rest of those Oreos will last maybe a day in my house. I will have to eat them all in one, shameful, sweaty sitting, because I can’t just have Oreos laying around to tempt me.
Unless it’s acceptable to knock on your neighbor’s door for one Oreo, I won’t be making these fabulous sounding “diet” shakes.
The struggle is real, folks.
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Porta Poop #2
Because one can’t talk about porta-potties enough, yes, I have another story involving a porta-potty. Yup. Don’t read during a meal or directly following having anything to eat. It’s one of those. You have been warned.
I have mentioned my dear Grandma Dorothy before. She has passed, but not a single family get-together goes by that we do not fondly recall her crazy antics or reminisce about her depression-era perseverance. She is still a very important part of our lives, she just lives on through our favorite repeated stories.
After my mother read my “Porta Poop” post, she insisted I had to write about my grandmother’s experience with a porta-potty. It it one of our favorite stories, so I have to share it.
Disclaimer: My grandmother suffered from dementia. She was disoriented 99% of the time and I, in no way, condone laughing at someone suffering such a cruel disease. Why my family finds this particular event humorous is simply due to it being fucking funny, and because, if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. We knew she would have preferred we spent her last years laughing, rather than crying. She loved to laugh, and thus we did.
Before my grandmother got really bad, before she attempted to eat her false teeth, and before we sadly had to move her into a home, my mother and aunt would take her on day-long car trips. Even after her dementia settled in for good, she could point out her favorite make and model of car. She loved to ride for hours just looking, watching.
While adventuring to God-knows-where and for God-knows how long, a pit stop was in order. Because my family is the type to use a random porta-poop, they didn’t even think twice about doing their business in one on the side of the road in BFE.
They got Grams to go in and insisted it was a safe place (I still think that was a cruel, cruel lie), so she entered without too much complaint.
After what seemed an exponentially long amount of time, my aunt knocked on the blue door to see how Grams was getting on.
Grandma’s response: “I’m washing my hands and I just can’t seem to get this soap to lather”.
I can only imagine how my aunt’s expression changed from confusion to complete horror.
Aunt Dana: “Ma, you must be mistaken, there is no sink in there”. I’m sure she was praying hard that she just misheard.
No. She did not mishear.
Grandma: “Yes, there’s this nice, little sink in here, with this pretty pink soap. It just won’t get soapy”.
In case you haven’t caught on:
SHE WAS “WASHING” HER HANDS IN A URINAL, WITH A URINAL CAKE.
I still can’t even. I’m gagging right now.
In utter panic mode, my aunt attempted to coax Gramdma out of the porta-potty with as calm a voice as possible.
My mom was waiting in the car and suddenly saw a blur of Grandma and Dana, reeling down the hill from porta-hell. My aunt had my grandma by her wrists and she was holding her arms as far from her as humanly possible. She was yelling as if someone just got murdered. My mom opened the door and all she heard was:
“URINAL CAKE! WIPES! URINAL CAKE! GOOD GOD, LORD ALMIGHTY!”
After they wiped every square inch of my grandmother off with wipes, Grams says: “I don’t understand what the fuss was about. It was a perfectly good sink. And perfectly good soap!”
That day, we were glad she had dementia. I don’t think anyone would recover from learning they had gotten down to business with a urinal cake.
Sometimes dementia is good, but only when it involves porta-potties, urinals and “special” soap.
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Daddy
He’s slow as molasses (unless someone says, “Cake!”) and selectively deaf (he somehow always hears when we are talking about him two rooms away, with the door shut, yet he can’t hear directions when you’re screaming them over the phone).
Somehow, over night it seems, he’s become an old man. He has the telltale wrinkles in front of his ears, and he has a tiredness behind his eyes that only comes with age, experience, and years of a life full of happiness and pain.
He wears black socks with his white Velcro shoes, the type of shoes he swore he would never, ever wear. His faded jeans sag in the behind and they are far too short, revealing his ivory-white legs when he sits.
He’s stubborn as a mule, and will only have things his way. The TV remote, vacuum cleaner, and his trusty handheld poker game are practically appendages, and don’t you dare try to touch them.
Usually we tease him mercilessly, and like a champ, he just responds with, “Har Har” or a disgusting, inappropriate joke. He’s obsessive about having a clean floor and he’s said, “Rinse your dish” to me about 98,456,742 times.
Despite the annoyances, his obsessive-compulsiveness and stubbornness, he’s my dad. He’s the one who taught me how to ride my bike for the first time (promptly into a rose bush) and he’s the one who says he loves me every time he asks me if I checked my oil.
My dad may not hang on my every word and he may not always ask me how my day was, but he was the one who never gave up teaching me how to count money when I was in 2nd grade. After weeks of late nights inaccurately counting nickels and dimes, I finally did it correctly. He was so elated (and relieved) he feigned fainting, and actually fell over and pretended he was really out of it due to shock (he probably hurt himself and couldn’t get up, but still).
My dad may not play golf anymore, and he may have lost most of his muscle mass over the years, but he’s still the kind of man who will stand up for his family. A few months ago, a man was digging in my parents’ recycling and crushing cans loudly in the wee hours of the morning. After my father asked the man to take the cans and kindly move on, the vagrant threw slurs at my dad. That old man stood up straight, looked the punk in the eye, and told him to “git”. That was that.
My dad is the kind of man who will hang up his suit and tie, swallow his pride, and take a job as a janitor for the sake of his family. He’s the kind of man who will tell a creep on my bus to leave me alone, or he will come for him. He was always our savior, our protection.
He’s not perfect, but he’s my father and dammit, that’s just all that matters.
My dad doesn’t read blogs (he still thinks the Internet is some kind of cellphone), and I’m not sure he even reads anymore, but this is for him.
I’m pretty sure my dad was a badass.
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Thought Overload
Am I the only one whose mind wanders during yoga? Please tell me I’m not the only person incapable of thinking solely of their rounded and backward breathing (I didn’t even know there were other types of breathing. Am I the only one who simply breathes in and out??) I just worry I’m crazy, or I will never learn the art of not thinking, constantly, obsessively.
This morning, I got up early and attended Yin Yoga. Let me repeat that: I got up early. To do fitness. I really felt a tiara, or a certificate of achievement was deserved, but no one seemed impressed my happy ass was there bright and early, with my unwashed hair.
I had never heard of Yin Yoga, but that’s really not surprising, as I know really nothing about any kind of yoga. All I cared to ask the instructor was, “Will this likely kill a newbie?” She laughed and said, “Get a blanket, two blocks, and a bolster. You will be fine. Oh, and we will be positioned in a circle”.
Ugh.
I am not fond of facing others during fitness, because it means they will look at me. They will have front row seats to my ineptness. Why a circle? I wanted to ask, “Can I just sit outside the classroom? It’ll be fine. I’ll hear your instructions and I’ll peek in a few times”. I knew it wouldn’t go over well, so I just placed my mat as far away as possible, while still being somewhat a part of the circle of shame.
Let me make it clear that I am 100% open to having a yoga mind. I want to be able to focus on my third eye (especially when my third eye isn’t being referred to as an especially nasty zit, which is what I thought a third eye was). I want to be able to connect to my breath, but it’s HARD.
My brain does not shut off. Ever. I’m usually thinking/worrying/planning several different things at the same time. I have incredibly vivid dreams. I have been known to “sleep plan” lessons. Obviously, I’m an over-thinker. The mental exercise of yoga is far harder than the physical element. I’m mentally weak. I’m struggling, friends. For your reading pleasure, I would like to share actual thoughts I had during yoga today. I’m weird. Beware.
I should have blown my nose before class.
OMG. I legit almost blew a booger out of my nostril. Mouth breathing it is.
She wants me to put my left leg behind my ass and then lay down? Is she seeing my body?
I wonder if the guy with the speedo on could breathe any louder. He’s brag breathing.
Why is it that the men are always almost naked and the women are practically wearing their entire closet. Why is that?
Thank GOD I’m the fattest one in here. Said no one ever.
Wow. I had no idea my heel would ever meet my belly button. I should introduce them to each other. Katie, you’re fucking mental.
When was the last time they washed the cover to this bolster? What if someone had their poorly-wiped ass on it right before this class? I’m laying my face on this thing. I’ll get pink eye! I might get E. coli! I might die!
Further, do they mop this floor? What if they don’t? What if? Should I ask?
Am I the only one who sneaks looks at the other people when our eyes are supposed to be closed?
That girl has a hole in the crotch of her pants. How embarrassing. Wait, so do I!! OMG, who saw??
EVERYONE. Because we’re in a CIRCLE.
Could I get away with a small toot? Probably not.
Obviously I need help. HELP.
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Blanket Yoga
Guys, I just discovered Restorative Yoga, and it is the best thing ever. EVER.
A few days ago, my aunt and I were discussing my new yoga journey. I was trying to express to her how hot and challenging my yoga sessions have been. How do you, in speaking words, explain a hot that is suffocating? How do you adequately explain to someone that during your yoga-ing, you wish you were never born? How do you do this, and at the same time express that you love it in a very masochistic way? I think that she is still worried for my safety and well-being. I guess I did not explain myself properly.
So, this was how she invited me to be a part of her yoga experience. Let me just quote her:
“It is all very calming. When I leave, I feel like I just had a massage. You lay down the whole time and they cover you with blankets…”
Blankets.
All I heard was “blankets”.
I asked her, “Do you mean to tell me, when you do yoga you get to lay down the whole time? You get blankets?”
SHUT.THE.FRONT.DOOR.
I truly thought she had to be lying. Who has ever heard of “Blanket Yoga”? I was intrigued, and thus, I attended with her yesterday.
I would like to make it clear, and to absolve my aunt of all assumptions made about her character, by saying, “BLANKETS”.
No shit, during restorative yoga, you practice your breath and lay down. The whole time. It was better than any exercise or health class I have ever taken. I did not expel one drip of sweat. I did not have to spray down my mat with a hose after, and I did not have to wash my hair. It was beautiful.
At one point, we made ourselves a makeshift lay-down chair with blankets, and enjoyed just relaxing for a good 20 minutes. During, the instructor came around and gently laid eye pillows, scented with lavender on our closed eyelids, and then she covered us with blankets. She tucked me in.
I cannot fully express my love of this yoga session thoroughly. I do not have the literary skill.
All I can say is that I will be attending “Blanket Yoga” from here on out, for all eternity.
Thank you, Auntie Dana, GOD BLESS YOU.
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Toot Toot
Ladies, why do we feel the need to not graciously accept compliments? Why do we feel guilty for admitting when we look fierce? Why do we feel we are bragging when asked to list our achievements on resumes and college applications? What is this overly-humble bullshit about? Ya’ll know what I’m talking about. If you aren’t guilty of it lately, you have been at one point or another. We all have. We have all said, “Oh, this old thing?”, when given a compliment. Don’t lie.
Recently I was at a school district training. The trainer was the kookiest woman I have ever met. She was spunky, loud, and pretty much the most hilarious woman I’ve ever met coming out of our district (that’s really saying something, because usually education sucks the life out of you). At one point she started going off on a tangent. She asked us women to make it out goal to never poo-poo a compliment again. The class was on poverty, but someone how she got the topic of self-deprecation in. Pretty amusing. Well, she really got me thinking. She also got me paying more attention to how I respond to compliments.
I guess I should admit that the way I respond, depends on the person. If my boyfriend pays me a compliment, I flutter my lashes, smile pretty, and coyly say, “Oh yeah? You think I’m pretty? What else?” Pretty much this is why my boyfriend is annoyed with me 99% of the time. Compliments from men turn me into the worst version of myself ever. I’m the annoying insecure, attention-seeking psycho all men attempt to avoid. I hate that me.
With literally everyone else, I vehemently deny my pants are nice, and “No, I didn’t do anything new with my hair”- stop looking at me.
I’ve noticed that the compliments I’ve had the hardest time accepting come from other women. Far too often, we are pitted against one another in a competition of wits, and of who has the best, basically, everything. Yet, when it comes down to admitting we have “won” a tiny battle and we’ve been noticed, we deny ever making any effort made on ourselves.
Ladies, as I’m a fellow lady (well, sometimes), I can honestly admit we find it annoying when our fellow woman plays dumb when being paid a compliment. We know it comes from a deep sense of insecurity and the inability to celebrate ourselves, but this bullshit needs to stop! We are all smart, beautiful, and accomplished in some way (unless you’re not, and in that case-get your act together). If a friend, or even a complete stranger tells you they like your lip color, don’t suck your lips into your mouth like a self-conscious vacuum, and passionately regret trying a different color, SMILE and know your teeth look über white. Know you’re hot and others see it too.
The inspiration came to write on this topic when I was emailing a woman from the graduate admissions department at Sierra Nevada College. I was inquiring about the letter of recommendation that was required. Her email response let me know that the letter wouldn’t be required if I have an undergraduate GPA of 3.0 or higher. I felt elated, and was happily typing, “That won’t be a problem, I graduated with honors,” Then, as I hastily tapped, ‘delete, delete, delete…’, I said aloud, “NO, NO, NO! Imma toot my own horn a little bit, dammit”.
“Toot toot.”