Do you ever wish you had a gluten intolerance, or some crazy food allergy that restricts your diet to chicken broth and carrot sticks? Like, legit all your stomach can tolerate is steamed spinach?
Maybe I’m being insensitive to people who really suffer from food intolerances, but…YA’LL ARE LUCKY BISHES.
“Would you like some of this delicious homemade bacon beer macaroni and cheese?” I used craft beer, the good bacon, and every single type of cheese on Earth.”
“Wow. I would, but white pasta gives me fiery explosive surprise diarrhea. Cheese makes me so constipated I have to be hospitalized for potentially fatal blockage. Bacon makes me break out in painful hives and my head blows up like the Elephant Man. Thanks for offering, though.”
How easy and wonderful would it be if there were a legit reason to not eat fattening, delicious food? Forget the fact that you would be healthier and svelte, I need a painful agonizing reason to say no. Otherwise, this would be my response to the above question:
“Hargphumth”
And I’m gone. I’m either knocking people over to get to said food and/or I’m running down the street with the whole pan of mac and cheese (I’ll return your Le Creuset. Chill.)
Did you know that there is actually a recipe for beer bacon mac and cheese? Good ol’ Pinterest. It even has garlic (too bad it makes me gassy).
Tag: lifestyle
Love/Hate
I was nominated by the lovely, Carrots In My Carryon to participate in the Love-Hate Challenge. I am pretty freaking stoked to do this, because there are so many things I hate. Yup. Hate. This doesn’t make me a horrible person, it makes me particular and tasteful, just in case anyone was wondering. Also, hate is just a word to describe a particularly strong emotion. If anyone feels things too strongly, it’s this gal.
Don’t forget: I will be listing 10 things I love as well, so calm down.
I guess I’m supposed to list the rules before I begin my assault at all horrible things.
1. List 10 things you love
2. List 10 things you hate
3. Nominate others to do the same thing
Yay.
I will be starting with the things I hate, so I can end with sunshine and rainbows.
So, here we go…
1. I freaking hate, HATE repetitive throat clearing. It grates on my nerves and tests my patience. It also makes me wonder if the throat-clearer is doing it on purpose distinctly to annoy others. Why else would one need to clear their throat 80 times in 10 minutes?
2. I hate when a stranger burps in close proximity to me. On the airplane the other day, a dude sitting next to me belched and didn’t cover his mouth. I almost went ape shit all over him. I DO NOT want air, laced with your stomach contents, entering my nostrils, or any opening on my body. Cover it up or swallow your nasty face fart. Please and thank you.
3. I hate, detest being hot. It makes me sweaty. It makes me cranky. It makes me feel like poop. If I could walk around with a fan, constantly blowing cold air on me, I freaking would. I don’t even care how insane it would look. Quite unfairly, I always run hot. When most people are bundling up in their cardigans inside a movie theater, I am suffering from boob, and every other kind of crevice sweat you can imagine. I don’t even want to think about how monstrous I will behave when going through the “change” *shudders*.
4. I hate Walmart. I mean, who doesn’t, but I would win, hands down, for haterest of the haters. I am very proud to say, I have not been in a Walmart for a year. I could say it’s been a lot longer, if it weren’t for a certain friend who convinced me I’d find what I was looking for if I just broke down and went. She was right, but I hated every snotty-nosed-child-screaming-adult-pant-shitter-inept-employee-picking-their-ass second of it. It’s just a more peaceful world when Katie doesn’t have to frequent that hellhole, mmkay?
5. I hate people who pretend like they’re listening, but they’re mentally making their grocery list instead. Don’t ask me about my weekend, or upcoming plans if you have no intentions on really listening. If you don’t really care, that’s cool. I don’t really care for small talk either, if we are being honest. Let’s not waste each other’s time. Just don’t ask, if you aren’t really good at feigning interest. Some people can tell. Alright?
6. I hate the smell of latex. I’m gagging right now, as I type. Eckgrr…I hate that I have to choose between latex stanky hands and prune fingers when doing the dishes. Both are curses from the devil. Life really is unfair.
7. I hate polish sausage. Growing up with a Polish (oh, excuse me, Lithuanian) father, meant polish sausage at least once a week. I.cannot.stand.that.ish. Cannot. It’s made with fried potatoes and onions, which are otherwise quite tasty, but when cooked with the sausage, they taste like feet with a side of bad breath. I started hating polish sausage when after asking my dad what we were having for dinner once, he said, “Pig snouts”. I had JUST seen pig snouts at the grocery store and I thought he was serious. I had nightmares consisting of snout-less pigs dancing on potatoes that night and that was it for polish sausage and me.
8. I hate doing laundry. It’s the most depressing, endless chore, hands down. You can spend an almost entire day, one of your precious days off from work, doing mountains of laundry. Once the last sock has found its mate and the last wrinkled shirt is hung, you feel satisfaction for precisely 30 seconds. You then realize that you will be needing to do this arduous bullshit again in just a week’s time. Deflated is putting it mildly. Then, your boyfriend finds a pile of clothes hiding under the bed, and you wonder why you even try to be an adult. It’s too much work.
9. I hate autocorrect. With a fucking passion. 9 times out of 10 it’s so far from being right, it’d be laughable, if it weren’t for the fact I’ve been trying to type “irreversible” for 10 ducking minutes, to no avail. Smartphone, my ass! Shut!
10. I hate people who smoke right outside stores or places where other people need to walk. I make it a choice to not smoke and fill my body with toxins. When asshole in the Nascar jacket feels the need to smoke right next to the entrance to 7-11, I want to fart directly in his mouth and see how he likes it. I bet it wouldn’t be so enjoyable.
Now for the freakin sunshine and rainbows.
1. I love being pampered. I’m all about massages, pedicures, manicures and scalp treatments. If I could afford to get a massage and a pedicure every week, it would so be happening! If I could hire someone to give me a head massage every night, well, better start applying!
2. I love talking to myself. I don’t answer myself, so it’s OK. I’m not that loony. If I’m particularly stressed, I talk it out. It’s no biggie. Except when you get caught…years ago when I was living in BFE, I was driving home after a pretty craptastic day. I was going at it, in the car, calling out all the stupid people and things I had to put up with that day. I thought it had been a pretty successful chat. I got home, parked, and resumed my afternoon without thinking about my little tirade in the car again. Later that evening, a friend posted on my Facebook that she saw me driving home and, “You must have been listening to a really great song, you were singing and dancing like there was no tomorrow”. I bet that was a fucking sight. Now, I reserve any talking it out for home, when no one is home.
3. I love freaking sprinkles! LOVE THEM. Most normal people think they are disgusting and taste like chalk. I think they are the prettiest, tastiest, most lovely little morsels ever created. To me, the most beautiful sight to behold is a cupcake with light-as-air buttercream frosting bespeckled with rainbow sprinkles. Pure perfection.
4. I love being at home. I am an introvert at heart, so where I am happiest is in my fat pants, on my couch, with my Netflix. I love going out for lunch with friends, going shopping, lounging at the lake, but those things are really only fun because I know that after them, I get to go home and take my bra off.
5. I love getting new, feel-all-the-feels music and getting in my car and driving. For some reason, new music sounds best in the car. I turn it loud, roll the windows down, and let it go.
6. I love talking to my mom. She listens, like really listens. So many people, and i am guilty of it too, don’t listen to listen, but to respond. Most people don’t really listen, because they are waiting for their turn to speak, or they are thinking up what they want to say next. My mom is a rarity, in that she listens with not just her ears, but also her eyes and heart.
7. I love the shit out of watermelon. I can easily eat half a small watermelon in one sitting. They are sweet and so satisfying. I also don’t feel too guilty about horking out on an entire watermelon, because they are like 90% water. Right??
8. I love carbs. If I could subsist on bagels, pasta, cupcakes, belgian waffles, sticky rice, and fries, I totally would. I know I could survive on these tasty-as-shit carb bombs, so I guess I meant to say, if I could eat these things and not get more fat, I would be the happiest girl in the world.
9. I love clouds. Like, I am obsessed with them. I take pictures of clouds, on the daily, add filters, and the hashtag “cloudporn” like that annoying person we all try to ‘unfriend’ on Faceboob. I am sure no one looks at my cloud pictures like they are works of art. They are pictures of clouds with an unnatural tint to them, thanks to Instagram. They are nothing special to anyone else but me. I love them. They are my babies.
10. I love teaching, because kids are funny little things. They don’t mean to be funny, and that is precisely what makes them so damn funny. One of my favorite quotes from my students was from a 3rd grader I had last year. She loved to write and tried to use phrases she didn’t yet understand how to use properly. it was incredibly endearing. She was writing about something unbelievable that happened to her over the weekend and said, “Teacher, it was so crasy, it blew my mind off”. That is pretty crazy! There is truly a never dull day in the life of a teacher.
There you have it, folks, my top 10 loves and hates. Now, I nominate Cat in the Cactus because her and Carrots In My Carryon are my faves!
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A Blogger Award?
Golly gee! I do believe I have been awarded a blogger award by one of my new favorite bloggers, Carrots In My Carryon. This chick is hilarious. I mean, who couldn’t simply adore a blogger with such a clever name? I am “blogger-smitten”.
I have learned quite a bit about this whole blogging thing over the past couple of months.
First, I had no idea how to even add tags to my blogs, and now I am adding links to blogs in my posts. This is an impressive feat for someone who once thought their laptop was broken because the volume button wouldn’t turn the stupid thing on. So, go me!
Second, I had no idea there were “blogging awards” and that I would ever in a million years be nominated to participate in one. I feel quite important right now. I am trying to keep a lid on my glee so as to not annoy simply everyone who comes into contact with me now.
Third, the WordPress blog world is full of insanely talented, amazing writers and people. I simply hoped to connect to those in my life, and yet, here I am connecting with people all over the globe. I am feeling all the feels right now.
As I am learning, there are rules to participating in the blogging award business. These are the rules, copied and pasted from Carrot’s blog:
THE RULES:
- DISPLAY THE AWARD CERTIFICATE ON YOUR WEBSITE
- ANNOUNCE YOUR WIN WITH A POST AND LINK TO WHOEVER PRESENTED YOUR AWARD
- PRESENT 15 AWARDS TO DESERVING BLOGGERS
- DROP THEM A COMMENT TO TIP THEM OFF AFTER YOU’VE LINKED THEM IN THE POST
- POST 7 INTERESTING THINGS ABOUT YOURSELF.
I think the award certificate is this:
I am not quite sure why it is picture of a dragon, and I am immensely relieved that I do not have to write a fantasy story about a dragon. Or, that my facts have to be dragon-themed. Other than my breath in the morning, I am not very dragon-y. I like watching the Mother of Dragons with her babies on GOT, but that is the extent of my dragon-ness.
I am supposed to nominate 15 people. Let’s see if I can round up 15 fellow bloggers.
Drum roll please…I nominate:
1. babysteps22 because she is adorably hilarious. She is my blogger friend hailing from India. I am learning so much reading her posts. She is super funny, a great writer, and simply lovable.
2. AuntyCath because she is funny as hell and super supportive. She lives way over in Australia, and that is just rad as shit.
3. albuslepus because she commented on my latest post and it made me happy that someone new relates to what I have to say. Also, because I want to learn more about this person!
4. RobynChristi because she is my British doppleganger, in that we share the same humor. She is adorable and just funny as hell. Twinsies!
5. sfarnell because his comments on my posts are funny and I know very little about him! I know how men like these kinds of things *evil laugh*.
6. ACoupleTalks because their blog is very very funny and thought-provoking. Also, their angle is interesting: a husband and wife co-writes this amusing and insightful blog. Check it out.
Whew, I am getting tired. Do I really have to nominate 15 bloggers? Do you know how much work goes into tagging people? 6 is almost 15, right? I think 6 is good.
OK, here we go. I know ya’ll have been chomping at the bit to read these super random facts about me. It has taken most of my mental energy today to come up with 7, somewhat interesting facts about yours truly. Everyone better enjoy this, and consider these facts the most interesting factoids learned in quite awhile! Ready? Here we go!
1. I didn’t know I had a sister until 7 years ago. Straight out of Maury, we have the story of how Katie met Tracy. Actually, our story is precious to me, and I will be writing about it soon. Stay tuned.
2. I am directionally-challenged. It took me the entire 4 years of high school to be able to find my locker on the first attempt. When I started college, I relied on my friend to get me to class. Every.Single.Day we would exit class and I would start heading in the wrong direction. Every day.
3. I am forever worried about all of the old people of the world. Did they take their pills? Did they cross the road safely? Have people been holding doors for them? If I see an elderly person crossing the street, I slow my car, and wait until I know they got across safely. Don’t mess with my elders! I will eff you up.
4. I am super OCD. No, not “counting or checking compulsive”, (although I have been known to check to make sure I unplugged my flat iron or coffeemaker more times than is sane), but in a, “Is-my-nail-art-the-exact-same-on-every-nail-tell-me-for-the-54,847,643-time-why-you-are-not-mad-at-me-anymore-and-OMG-that-person-across-the-room-sneezed-and-now-I-am-going-to-die way. Yeah.
5. I have intense wanderlust, but I also have a fear of the danger present in all new experiences. When I was in England, we rented a car to be able to have more flexibility with our destinations. After a harrowing trip on the motorway, through tiny village streets, and finally into the parking lot of the Quality Inn, literally the first hotel I saw outside of Birmingham, I never wanted to drive in England ever again. I was sure I would die in England, and my family would find out because someone would happen upon some obscure story about the End of American’s Jolly Holiday. That damn car was parked for two days until we had to get to Wales, to get the ferry to Ireland. I had to get back on the horse, and I got over my fear of dying in a tiny Peugeot. By the end of my trip, I was an expert “wrong side of road driver”. Getting over the scary shit in life has always been a challenge for me.
6. I have an insane attention to detail. It is why I remember faces, not names, and why I remember scary details about you, details you didn’t think you told me. I also have a keen sense of reading body language. I can tell when someone is anxious, worried, or uncomfortable. I react to people’s body language more than the words that come out of their mouth.
7. I am a 3rd grade teacher, and I adore every stressful, time-consuming, and inspiring moment of every day. However, my dream job is to be paid to travel and stay at weird hostels and hotels, and to just experience the hilarity that travel can be. You know where I am going with this, right? Yup. Then, obviously, I will write genius reviews of my experiences. I am sure there are millions of people who would love this gig. Dreamers can dream.
Well, I can’t wait to learn more about the fabulous bloggers I have nominated. Ya’ll better do it!!
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Awkward Moment #3
That awkward moment when you come face to face with your fat foe at the hair salon. Your hair stylist can’t put the cape on quick enough.
I know I have extra fat in the way my pants groan when I squeeze them on, and when I’m asked how far along I am by complete strangers. I get it. I know.
The absolute worst reminder you’re fat is when in the seated position in front of a mirror. Maybe I’m out of practice with sitting in front of mirrors, but it’s always a huge surprise when I sit in the hot seat at the salon. I guess I forget the extent at which I’m fat. My thought process, when faced with this fabulous reminder, usually goes something like this:
Before leaving for the salon:
I need to wear something that sucks all of my fat in, but is also flowy. Something that doesn’t cling to every crevice and stretch mark. It also has to be something I don’t care too much about, in case I get dye on it. Do I have something like that? No, of course I don’t, you fool. If I did, all of my fat problems would be solved.
I guess it’s the leggings I yank up to my boobs, a layering tank, and a moo moo. It’s stylish, it has chevron print *sigh*
At the salon, upon sitting in the hot seat:
Just don’t look, the cape is coming soon. Just don’t look.
Jesus.
I looked.
How is it possible my body spreads out like Jabba the Hutt upon sitting? Where is all of this fat when I’m standing? It must go where my boobs jet off to when I lay on my back. Backstabbing, bitch body.
Where is the damn cape that hides all of this? Where is the cape? Where is it? The cape! Gah. I can’t avert my eyes anymore. Put.On.The.Cape.
Oh, here it comes. It’s like a long-lost Blanket of Denial. It feels good. It feels right.
The entire time my hair is getting done, I forget what is under the cape.
I look fabulous in a cape. I wonder if I could start a new fashion trend. Fellow fat ladies would love me. I could call it “The Cape of Denial”. It would be very forward and en vogue.
When my hair is done:
My hair says, “I’m sexy. I’m unstoppable. I’m fucking fierce”. My body says, “I like long walks to the refrigerator and I’ve given up”. My hair is gorg. At least I have my hair.
That’s usually how I self-soothe, the “At least” thought pattern. At least I can still see my vagina. At least I have pretty eyes. At least I usually know how to dress my fat. At least.
The struggle.
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Awkward Moment #1
That awkward moment you are attempting to sit on a stool at the cupcake shop, you shouldn’t be at, and the bastard feels very, very untrustworthy. After coming too close to breaking a chair made out of metal, at a cupcakery, it’s only necessary to swear your friends to utter secrecy. You take it one step further by threatening bodily harm if your secret gets out. You didn’t break the chair, but in the “fat world” almost breaking it is just as damn bad.
The next realization you have is that if you didn’t feel it necessary to suggest cupcakes right after eating an entire meal (as if that wasn’t satisfying enough), you wouldn’t be in the predicament of almost breaking a chair while biting into a massive cupcake adorned with marshmallows, graham cracker crumbs, and chocolate sauce. No one suggesting hikes after lunch break chairs.
Then, you wonder when it will be that the awkward moments become too frequent and you actually make a change. How many chairs at specialty bakeries does your ass have to dismantle until one is done with the bad choices?
Awkward Moment #2 happens when you realize, probably never. Because cupcakes.
Shut up, Ryan Gosling, you don’t know me!
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Why? No. Just Stop!
So, this morning, on my way to brunch, I saw a dude, walking down the street, wearing a bathrobe. A bathrobe. Strangely, he did not appear to be nude under said robe. He was wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt and jeans. And a bathrobe. If it were winter, or chilly at all, maybe this wouldn’t be as weird, but it was 90 degrees. What would posses someone to:
A. Wear a bathrobe in public, and…
B. Wear a bathrobe in public in 90 degree weather?
And, no, he was not a street person, he was talking on his iPhone 6.
Like, did he think, “I may get lost going down the street, so, in case I’m lost well into the night, I better be prepared, by wearing…a nice, fuzzy, warm bathrobe”?
Except, this bathrobe wasn’t nice and fuzzy. It was colored shit brown, had numerous holes, and was adorned with curious stains, and I don’t even want to imagine the amount of porn that poor piece of terry cloth has seen.
What possesses people to wear items of clothing in public that should never see the light of day? Additionally, and even more curiously, why do people wear winter weather items in the summer?
I know you have a mad case of swamp ass in those black leather skinny pants, don’t even lie. And, who can even stand to be around the genius who sweats buckets in their Ugg boots and then takes them off, in a room with other people, like no biggie? Also, is it not common knowledge that if your head is hot, the rest of your body will be too? Why then all the beanies, people? Why????
Next person I see wearing a sweatshirt in the heat of another 90 degree day, I’m going to stop and ask about their clothing choice. I’ll pretend I’m a fashion writer in search of the latest trend. I’ll ask them why they chose a long-sleeved, fleece-lined, sweat factory, usually worn in the snow, on a day where most people try getting away with wearing next to nothing.
I have to know why. Do they not get hot? Does the heat not bother them? If so, what’s their secret? Is it a weight loss or cleanse thing? Are they going for boob and crotch sweat of epic proportions on purpose, to lose weight? Are they not of the human race? Were they sent here from a planet where the thermostat is always set to 68, and they are just cold, always? Fucking why?
Also, I’m kind of tired of the “Wear Anything in Public Because This is America” trend. No, just because you have the right, you should not wear your sweat-stained, used-to-be-white negligee as a dress. We all know it’s not a dress, it’s from Suzy’s, and it’s for the bedroom. It’s not trendy, no one is envious of your attire, and your nipples are showing. Go put on an actual dress, mmmkay?
If I start sweating just looking at you, you’re probably wearing a beanie or knee high boots with shorts. STOP THAT. TAKE IT OFF.
If my cheeks are flushed and I start sweating upon looking at you, it’s probably because I’m embarrassed for you, no one wants to see your beef curtains, hanging out of your shorts, swaying in the summer breeze. STOP THAT. PUT THEM AWAY.
Well, I don’t really have much more to say after that. Good day.
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Ugly Sleep
Don’t get me wrong, I adore waking up to my boyfriend’s adorable sleeping face. Most days. Yes, I love feeling his warmth against me as he peacefully dreams, and all that mushy shit. But, let’s be real here. Those memes that paint the picture that love is sleeping like you’re one big romantic pretzel are bullshit.
This looks fucking awful. I bet his breath smells like hot Limburger cheese.
Let’s be honest, here. I’m going to paint a true portrait of what it’s like to share the same bed with someone.
First, I’m going to break it down to how sleeping with your significant other changes during the different stages of your relationship.
In the beginning, during that fateful “first sleep”, you don’t actually sleep. Instead, you lay perfectly still so as to not wake the other person. You don’t want to portray, so early on, that you sleep like an epileptic Tasmanian Devil. Not yet. Additionally, you fail to sleep because you must concentrate on never opening your mouth. No one likes a mouth breather, especially after you’ve had chicken cesear salad for dinner.
Not only must you keep your mouth odor to yourself, you can’t, for a second, allow your body to relax. You don’t want your bowels to believe it’s “a go” to expel any gas. Farting on your first night together, especially if your fart smells like hot salad, would be the absolute worst thing to happen.
Eventually, you relax enough to actually sleep and you feel euphoric that you shared such an intimate, beautiful thing together. Cuddling sometimes occurs, as does morning kisses. Either you don’t smell each other’s breath, because you both secretly brushed your teeth prior to “waking up”, or you’re too happy to care your breath smells like something died.
Somehow, your communal sleeping habits move from nose-breathing picturesque statue and sickeningly romantic, to something so ugly. So scary.
When my boyfriend and I first started dating, I was so scared to pop the fart cherry. You know, getting past that first fart in front of the same person you don’t let know you pluck hairs from your chin? It was so scary, and so painful. If the gas was too intense, I would pretend I left something in my car, so that I could go outside to let them fly. I recall a time when he, too, used to be embarrassed to fart in my presence and would actually say, “Oh! Excuse me!” Gone are those days.
Like easing up on farting in each other’s presence, so has our sleeping-with-someone-new-rituals. Nose breathing all night long is just not realistic, so full-on-gaping-mouth breathing complete with drool is what’s happening now. You don’t really know someone until you’ve smelled breakfast, lunch, and dinner on their breath.
The idea to write on this topic came the other night when, while rolling over, I almost lost an eye to the corner of my boyfriend’s man-sized pillow. It’s this behemoth down pillow with really poky corners, sharp as tacks. I secretly think that’s how he’s going to do me in. Who will ever be charged with murder by pillow corner?
As I laid there, feeling grateful I still had two eyes, I pondered how the way we sleep is the direct opposite of how every “love meme” says its done. As I listened to his even breathing, mixed in with a fart here, and a fart there, I wondered how we got past that too-embarrassed-to-be-a-real-human stage. I figured it all comes down to the fact that it hurts to hold farts in, and breathing your morning breath into someone’s face, is just another way of saying, “I love you”.
When your relationship has made it past the first, surreal, romantic “get a room” months, sleeping gets real and it gets ugly. If you can honestly say you or your significant other has not farted in bed, laughed, and said, “I was just warming up the bed for you, because I’m romantic as shit”, you’re a fucking liar. If you don’t wake up looking like Amy Winehouse, after a binge, you’re an alien. If you still sleep with your mouth as far away from your lover as possible, give it up. Pretty sleep is no way to live. I don’t love my boyfriend any less because I recoil when his frigid toes touch me in the night. He doesn’t find me less attractive even when dried drool cakes my eye shut. We both understand we don’t have to sleep like horny teenagers to be in love. “Ugly sleep” wins over shitty “pretty sleep” every time.
We all wish we looked like Snow White while sleeping. Just like having Kylie Jenner “asshole lips” is unrealistic, so is looking pretty while snoring.
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Sweet Moves, Yo
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…
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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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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.