I’m working on a post on Friday at 1 in the afternoon*, because I’ve been in bed for two days still feeling like I’m swinging in a yoga silk.
Ugh.
It started last week. At the end of class, when we wrapped up like fat vampires (well, I’m the fat vampire) to cool down, the new instructor moved us so we spun in our coffins of carnival-ride-hell. It was absolutely terrible.
Terrible.
Just thinking about it now makes me want to vom. Ugh. Bleck!
This past Wednesday, I asked the instructor not to make me sway *there it is again. Excuse me while I calm down my gag reflex*
Everything was fine until she forgot. She realized just seconds later and got me to stop moving, but the damage was already done.
That whole night I had dreams of all sorts of nauseating things. I’d detail them, but I just can’t without my head spinning.
The next morning, I barely got out of the shower alive. I’m a real wuss when it comes to fitness and committing to eating plans, but I’m simply not one to call in sick all the time. However, there was just no way I’d make it in. I could barely stand for five minutes without feeling like I was in a fun house of horrors.
As a teacher, it’s usually just easier to suffer through the pain than to put in for a sub, create last minute sub plans, and ask your already-overworked-fellow teachers to help you out.
This meme knows:
However, sometimes it’s the difference between barfing during your Number Talk and barfing with dignity in the privacy of your own bathroom.
Already, long story short, I think aerial yoga is making me motion sick.
Seriously, this just fucking figures.
Right when I feel my body feeling tighter. Right when my arms have less swing. Right when I’m feeling a definition in my sausage legs, the fitness that can be thanked for this miraculous change makes me physically ill.
I try to get fit, but fit don’t want this.
Fuck it all. Seriously.
In other news, I guess there are worse things than fitness being attributed to sudden illness, because I got a message on Plenty of Fish by…
Adult Baby
Friends, when I received my first message from this “guy”, I thought he was the first truly honest dude on a dating site.
Instead of finding out after you’re already invested, he’s kind enough to lay it all out, right in his username.
Adult Baby says to me:
I will pour myself a bowl of cereal, get more on the table and floor than in my bowl, and I won’t even notice.
I can’t hold down a job, unless posting horribly written Yelp reviews about massage parlors that offer happy endings counts as a job.
You will have to clean up after me, because I’ve never bought a cleaning supply in my life. Not even a trash can. Is that a cleaning supply?
This is what I thought. For a quick minute, I thought maybe he was kind of secretly smart and almost kind for being just so outright about his immaturity.
Then, the term “Adult Baby” was explained to me.
I’ll never be the same again.
Just google it. Just.google.it.
I am pretty much convinced that every dude on every dating site out there just wants to get in your pants or they want you to change their pants.
I’ll pass.
I thought for a quick minute that maybe they weren’t all creeps, because I was talking to a really intelligent and witty guy. It was more than just talking. We met for drinks and he took me to sushi. Other than talking way too much and being incredibly long-winded, he seemed like someone I could really see myself getting to know. He knew how to form a complete sentence. He knew who Gary Oldman was. He had a job. It seemed like a win. When I didn’t respond to his endless sexual innuendo jokes that obviously meant he was trying to talk sex, he was suddenly not interested. Cool, bro.
They seem to all be like this.
I’m just…
I don’t even know. Maybe I’ll know in my next blog post.
Well, I’m off to Google, “exercise that won’t make me motion sick” and to delete the dating site apps on my phone. Or, do I keep them for the sole purpose of endless entertainment?
What a varied and exciting life I lead.
*Obviously it’s not Friday anymore. Even more obviously, I’m a total procrastinator and didn’t finish my post on said Friday.
Tag: satire
Plenty of Freaks and OK Nope
Hey guys. It’s been a minute, but I’m back. I know those who know me are anxiously awaiting my aerial yoga post. Yes, I went to a type of yoga that requires upper body and ab strength, agility, and gracefulness-all of which I do not have. Wait for it. It’s coming, and it’ll be good.
For now, I must discuss the state of the single-and-dating-world, as that is where I am firmly planted. For now.
OMG, ya’ll. It’s fucking terrifying.
Like, so scary. So.scary.
OMG.
Remember when I said I was going to share a new personal challenge with you? Well, I’ve already begun miserably failing at it. I’m just a fucking rockstar at life.
I was going to challenge myself to a year of being single. It’s what everyone is saying I need. So, it must be what I need. I see the value in figuring out who I am as a single person before I jump back into a relationship. I see how giving myself a significant amount of time to heal is a smart thing. I get it. But, as with all things easier said than done.
Literally two days after I posted that I would be challenging myself to something pretty hardcore, I signed up for Plenty of Fish.
This kind of erratic, bipolar-esque behavior explains a lot in my life.
I’m now on Plenty of Fish and OK Cupid.
Help me.
If the majority of the men I’ve been contacted by and interacted with thus far is any indication of how my dating life will go, I’ll be single for a hell of a lot longer than a year.
I don’t even have the words to fully express my horror/disdain/disappointment, so I’ll just share a few screenshots. I didn’t get the idea to write on this topic before I deleted many a message, so just know, these are just the fucking tip of the iceberg.
Please share in my pain:
Now, obviously this dude just wants a night of fun. Maybe some woman out there wants one too. Nothing wrong with that. What is wrong is that he “wood” really like me to watch him in a “golf tournament”. Also, not one period or comma. Not.a.one.
When “wanna hang out” doesn’t work, just let it go. Where’s your dignity, man?!
Damn*
Nope.
This one was actually kind of sweet, but please don’t let me know you’re well-endowed in your very first message. And, as a teacher, I’m appalled at the lack of punctuation. The horror!!
This one…I don’t even…I can’t. I just…have no words.
Gross.
OK, the jig is up, ladies. Who’s responding to these sick, macho, sexist, ignorant, and just plain gross “pick up lines”? Obviously, these men think this crap works. There are two possible explanations:
1: It works at least once. I need to find these women to slap some fucking common sense into them, if even possible.
2: They are truly mentally handicapped, ignorant by choice, or they were taught this is how you pick up women.
Either way, I’m terrified. I think I’m back to working on my challenge. A life being the crazy cat lady who smells of cans of Whiskas and Bengay isn’t looking so terrible.
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Turned to Poo
I was trying really hard to pull an Eat, Pray, Love during my massage today. No, I did not try to sneak in a sandwich (maybe next time). I tried to meditate and think of nothing. I tried the mindful practice strategies that I’ve taught to my students. I tried to concentrate only on my breath and the sensations of the stress being kneaded out of my body. I tried. But, as with most things in my life, I failed. Epically.
All I could do was think.
This past month has felt like a fucking nightmare. Parts of the nightmare I can get into, others I can’t and won’t divulge.
Obviously, if you’ve been following my blog, or you know me personally, you know I left my boyfriend. I will never publically bash the man I gave five years of my life to, but I will say that I had thought I had already grieved the end of our relationship. Before I ever even got out of it. Well, I hadn’t grieved. Not even fucking close. Finally cutting the cord was harder than I thought it would be. In fact, to date, it was/is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
I’ve never been the one to dump. I’ve always been the dumpee or the jackass who gets cheated on. I’ve always been the one beating the dead horse, holding on for dear life to something that had been long dead.
When I decided to decline the job offer in England, I knew that despite my not jetting off to change my life abroad, I would still need to make massive changes at home. You don’t always have to pull an Under the Tuscan Sun or EPL to change your life for the better.
Well, “for the better” has not appeared yet. In fact, almost daily I wish I can go back in time to when my life was a familiar pile of poo, because this new poo smells terrible.
Yeah, I know, time heals all wounds. And all of that garbage.
The most eye-opening thing I’ve realized lately, I thought of during my massage today.
Every single good thing that has happened this past year has turned to utter shit.
For ease of reading, I’ll just make a stinking pile of shit list:
1. The “writing” gig for Bliss Babe was a joke.
2. I epically failed my first Master’s class and am in the appeal process still.
3. While my decision to not go to England was based on logic and lack of cash money, it still sucks to think I could be drinking tea and eating crumpets right now (actually, I’d be asleep, because it’s 5 in the morning there as I write this).
4. Even though it was inevitable, the relationship I gave my all and five years of my best years to failed.
So, all of this to say, this is why I’ve been MIA on the blogging front.
Oh, I forgot one more:
5. After not blogging for a month, I’ve likely lost most of my followers.
YAY.
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Ándale, Asshole
Yesterday, I went to Qdoba. It’s like Chipotle without the violent diarrhea. Qdoba is my go-to when I am in the mood for a burrito the size of my head. And, queso. Mmmmmmm queso.
Like any professional fatty, I always know exactly what I want. I could order my burrito in a coma.
Flour tortilla
White rice
Black beans
Chicken
Grilled veggies (because then all the other calories don’t count)
Queso (*whispering* Can I have just a tiny bit more? But, can you make it look like an accident?)
Cheese
Sour cream
Bag of tortilla chips
I thought everyone was like me when it came to these kinds of places. You go once, create a combination of over-salted, high calorie goodness, and just like that your sweet spot combo is forever etched into your cellulite, like a pleasure map. Then, every single time after it’s exactly what you get, down to the accidental extra queso scoop.
Amiright?
Then, why-please, Lord, tell me why-do people still act a damn fool when there are 80 people waiting in line behind them for their burrito fix?
Why?
This stupid, stupid amateur in front of me in line tonight almost got my brand new striped Toms permanently lodged into her gaping ummmmm-I-don’t-know-yet-hole.
People, do not, I repeat, DO NOT go to a fine establishment like Qdoba unprepared. If you aren’t sure if you want chicken or pork and you treat the available options like a life or death decision, your ass can go to a sit-down affair where you don’t make crazy, hungry fatties wait for you to decide if you want fucking sour cream or not.
I am absolutely fucking convinced there are people put on this planet for the sole purpose of being complete ego-centric jack-offs so that people get high blood pressure and the pharmaceutical companies and doctors are guaranteed a fat, consistent paycheck.
I think the mental health field is in on it too.
This is the only explanation for why someone would take 20 minutes to order one burrito at Qdoba, like it’s a funny game. This chick knew she was being an asshole.
Lord, please give me the strength, patience, and resilience to deal with these unaware, selfish people when I’m dangerously-and when I say dangerously, I mean, I almost did murder-hangry.
Please don’t hold this fatty up, playing like you don’t know what pork tastes like, because you don’t want to be between me and a burrito.
You do not.
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Sudden Summer Shame
Hey! It’s been a minute, but I finally have a new Shopper Lottie post up. I guess I was too busy getting my summer body on. Haha. Just kidding. I was too busy figuring out how best to eat my latest addiction (Tru Whip and rainbow sprinkles) without gaining any more weight. Losing the Winter of ’02 Weight for Summer Campaign ended when I couldn’t quit Taco Tuesday. Ya’ll know. You know.
Check it out here:
Sudden Summer Shame
I’d love to know if you have any good tips for cleverly disguising or proudly displaying your not-ready-for-summer-bod. Let me know in the comments over at SL!
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Independence Day
I think most have surmised that there’s been some recent changes in my life. I almost went off to England. Alone. And now I’m apartment searching. Alone.
Yup.
I’m single and ready to mingle.
Just kidding. I’m single and ready for some peace, and some much needed soul searching.
Right now my priority is finding a place to live.
It has not been easy due to some uncertainty surrounding the whens, hows, and the that-costs-how-muchs. The rental market where I live right now is slim and what you see is what you get. If you don’t jump right on the first half decent place you see, it’s gone the next day. I’m not exactly too picky, but I also don’t want to live in my city’s equivalent of Compton.
So, I’ll just say it’s been…interesting, the search for an apartment. I think I’ll add disappointing, scary, and fun, just to mix it up.
Yesterday, I got to tour a studio apartment in one of the oldest complexes in the city. The vintage charm was just oozing out of the Art Deco windows. There were even little milk delivery boxes. I couldn’t even.
The apparent charm and ideal location were the only two pros with this place. There were holes in the walls, the lobby and hallway carpets were filthy, and the wood was just being left to rot. It was sad.
The search for the perfect apartment is, of course, disappointing because $425 a month in one of the most coveted areas is, in fact, too good to be true.
Also, it’s scary to think that someone actually thinks anyone sane would want to rent a place that houses one of the seven gates of hell. There was a crawl space door located in the closest that went forever into the abyss of your worst nightmares. *NERP.
I love looking at houses and apartments, even when they end up being a big “nope”. I don’t know if it’s a woman thing, but every potential home I go into is an empty canvas that I can envision putting my mark on. Unless it’s scary and crack den-ish (I’ve never been in one, but I think it would be hard to work, decoratively, around the crack).
Here’s a video I took of the apartment from yesterday.
For some reason, my voice sounds kind of Valley Girl-ish. Forgive me.
Wish me luck on my continued search!
*Thanks, Lori!
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Why Salad Sucks
Actually, I will be referring to vegetable trays in particular, but it might as well be called ‘salad’. Besides, “salad sucks” is just fucking poetic.
So, last night I volunteered to bring a vegetable tray to a student art exhibit at a local coffee shop. One of my student’s art pieces was featured, and the coffee shop in question has amazing chai. No, I did not only go for the syrupy, cinnamon-y sweet chai. Well, kinda I did. Sorry not sorry.
Anyway.
I picked up a tray at a local grocery store, because ain’t nobody have time to wash and cup up numerous kinds of vegetables (except my mom. She will spend hours preparing a beautiful vegetable tray that just gets decimated in minutes. No thanks).
I was careful to choose the prettiest, freshest looking tray that wasn’t $1,000.
When I arrived at the coffee shop, our beautiful, sweet, thoughtful art teacher gratefully accepted my store-bought tray of health and placed it on the counter.
At this point, I went to get my chai. While I stood waiting, our school dean came in. As we stood making small talk, I suddenly smelled ass. Like, rotten-pumpkin-left-in-a-hot-dumpster-ass.
OMIGAWD. The dean just cut ass right next to me.
It’s permeating my delicate, virgin nostril skin.
It burns.
It was so bad, I had to move away, using the excuse that you have to pick your drink up on the far opposite side of the room.
But, the smell was over there, too. For a moment, I was worried maybe he had had an accident. I was momentarily quite embarrassed for him.
Wait, the smell is worse over here. So, much worse *gag*. It is worse over here, by.the.tray.
My $100 vegetable tray smelled like hot farts.
I looked around at the others in the room. Could they smell it?
Of course they could fucking smell it, you noob. Someone with no sense of fucking smell could smell it.
I was immediately self-conscious.
People are judging me. The art teacher is judging me. She is thinking, “Why would this idiot girl bring the smell of death into my event?”
Then, I couldn’t decide what to do. From the other side of the room, with my nose inside my shirt, I tried to decipher if the vegetables were rotting. From feet away, they looked fine. Perfectly fine. Right?
I contemplated asking the art teacher if she noticed the fart smell, and if she thought everything was a-OK, but I was feeling incredibly self-conscious. I wanted to continue pretending that my vegetables were not enveloping the fresh air in the room with the smell of dying asshole.
Eventually, the smell dissipated and surprisingly, the veggie tray was eaten completely.
Then, I freaked.
What if it was bad? What if people died? What if it’s my fault?
When I got home, I messaged the art teacher and asked her if she smelled farts. She thought I was silly, and said the vegetables tasted great.
Still, I spent an hour googling, “Is broccoli supposed to smell like farts?”
Cupcakes would never have smelled like farts. Never.
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Heart Palpitations
All I want to do is eat. Eat.all.the.things. I want cake, cookies, salty chips, whole avocados. This is how I get when I am stressed, excited, nervous, feeling in limbo, feeling settled… Basically, all the time. However, the need to eat my feelings is therapy-edition-bad when I have big decisions to make.
I am a horrible decision maker.
In that, I will avoid making major life decisions at all costs. Most days, I hope life will just happen and I won’t have to make any rash/huge/scary decisions myself.
The most inane, ridiculous aspect of this is that currently I am stressing about making a decision I don’t even have to make right now. I am stressing about stressing about a scenario that has not even happened.
What the?
As most of you know, I am attempting to make the big move to England (just writing that makes my eye twitch and heart palpitate). I had an interview last Wednesday with a school in Oxford. It was so cool. I would say it went well, and I learned a lot about the school, the school system in England, and that “fab” is my new favorite expression.
They expressed their disappointment that they wouldn’t be able to see me teach. I offered to send a video ASAP. They were thrilled. Then, I was down for the count with bronchitis for 4 days. This is how my life usually responds to time-sensitive things.
The woman I have been communicating with has been super nice and understanding, and insisted it was not a rush. So, after a depressing three days of missed work and a weekend, I came back to work, found a video on my school iPad I had already done, and sent it off.
I look hideous in this video, and it could be debated that I am about 6 months along due to the wonderful angle it was taken in. I mean, I am not even lying. The still of the beginning of the video makes me look like Sloth after a stroke. I am not kidding. So, I sincerely hope they disregard my RCF (resting crazy face) and just concentrate on the excellent teaching (if I do say so myself).
So, the point of my post is that I am stressing about a job I have yet to attain.
I was actually stressing about whether or not I should sell my Keurig, or not. I actually looked up shipping costs to ship a Keurig.
What the actual hell?
I don’t even have a job offer, but I am already homesick and sweating over the cost of public transportation.
What the fuck?
For real though, if this happens, it will be huge. Scary, exciting, expensive, and life-altering. Despite the exciting aspect of this, anything that is this huge of a change is terrifying.
I am also quite surprised by how expensive it is over there. I read somewhere that the cost of living is something like 33% higher in the U.K. than in the U.S. Yikes. There is a very real possibility I won’t even be able to afford this.
So, nothing other than stress to report.
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Go 'F' Me?
Happy Hump Day (Wednesday, you sickos). I got some good news yesterday. I guess I won’t muck about dragging out the preamble, so, guess what? I was just awarded Qualified Teacher Status (QTS) in England. This means I am qualified to teach in maintained and non-maintained schools across England. I was also made exempt to serve the statutory induction period. To my American readers, this means that I do not have to go through the probationary period upon landing a job.
Basically, I was freaking excited yesterday, and today I am feeling overwhelmed. This status means nothing more than I am qualified to apply for a teaching job. I still have to apply and then there is the visa issue. The sell-my-car-and-possessions issue. The seriously-am-I-considering-leaving-my-amazing-school?-issue. The this-will-be-expensive-as-crap-issue. The can-I-really-move-abroad-by-myself?-issue.
This is big.
Also, this may not even happen until next year. A whole year. The thing with teaching is that once you commit to teaching a year at a school, and you meet your class, you can’t exactly just up and leave. There are children to consider. Consistency. Doing what is right. So, if this doesn’t happen for this school year, I will have to wait an entire school year to try to make it happen again.
Le sigh.
In my excitement, I made a Go Fund Me page. I know. To some, this may seem in poor taste. Asking for money is tacky and I am the first one to think, “Come again?” when I see bloggers with the “Go Fund Me” link on their page, so readers can fund their writing. We all would like to be paid for our writing, but that doesn’t mean that we should. Or does it? I am beginning to understand why people ask for donations. Why the hell not?
Stupid people ask for the dumbest shit on Go Fund Me. I would LOVE for someone to pay off all of my irresponsible debt, but that doesn’t mean that anyone should. I would LOVE a pair of Louboutins (actually, no, I wouldn’t. I look like an idiot walking in heels and my feet are in agony after 5 minutes, but you get the point), but people asking for money for expensive heels should maybe just get a freaking job (then they will, maybe, realize that they can pay their rent instead).
However, I am asking for donations to fund my furthering career of teaching the future. I think that is a much more reasonable request than, say, needing money for pizza (although, needing pizza is a very real struggle).
I will make this happen regardless if I get a single donation or not. If I get a donation, I will feel like the luckiest, happiest girl in the world. I will also forever be grateful to whoever feels the need to help support my venture with their money.
With that, I will end with a picture of my editor/life coach/friend’s “Grandma Jeans”. In helping to assure me that I made the right decision with the Go Fund Me, she sent me a picture of her sexy jeans. She said, “Some would call these ‘in poor taste’, but until someone wants to take me on a shopping spree, I am rocking these jeans”. Or, something like that.
gofund.me/U-K-orBust
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"Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death"
We (as in my students and I) have been learning about the 13 British colonies and the road to revolution. Yesterday, we read about the Stamp, Tea, Sugar, and Quartering Acts. “No taxation without representation”, yo.
A colleague suggested playing a game that would entail taxing our students for certain things, like using a piece of paper, eating an apple, borrowing a pencil, etc. Each tax would fall under the acts they learned about: Stamp: “Pay me for that paper and the holes on the LEFT for the umpteenth time!”; Tea: “You want a drink of water? Pay up!”; Sugar: “Do you really think you need to eat graham crackers right after lunch? Well, then you are gonna pay.”; Quartering: “You wanna move to see the process grid? Well, it’s gonna cost.”
Can you already tell that this was way too much fun for me? Oh, it gets way better.
*evil laugh*
Continue reading “"Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death"”
