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: writing
Beware the Unpadded Sports Bra
*Disclaimer: this post is about bewbs. Most specifically nipples. Yup, I just came right out and said it. If you think you’re not ready for this level of honesty, maybe pass on this one. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I must be the only woman left on this planet who didn’t know that sports bras, minus added padding, is a recipe for disaster. In case you are also a nimrod and didn’t know this fascinating fact, don’t do it. That is, unless you are at home or for some strange reason you are missing your nipples.
Let me reiterate, don’t wear an un-padded sports bra in public. DON’T DO IT.
Learn from me, ladies.
Last week, it was necessary to wear a sports bra to work. We were having a fun-filled day of being outside. In the sun and 90-degree weather. All day. My most favorite part of this special day is being hot, sweaty, and stinky all.day.
So, I decided my only decent bra didn’t deserve swamp boob level grossness. Thus, my decision to wear my deceiving, bitch of a sports bra.
So, there I was thinking I was being extra smart because I was going to be extra comfy all day. Also, my sports bras tend to reign in my back boobs a bit more than a regular bra, with a regular back strap. So, there’s that.
After spending a good 20 minutes outside where it was still a little chilly in the morning air, after speaking to at least half of the staff and teachers at my school, after smiling like a fucking idiot at everyone I saw, I looked in the mirror.
To my absolute horror, my headlights were standing at full mast, front and center.
OMG. I COULDN’T EVEN.
It looked like I had taped stale, hard mini marshmallows to the front of my bra. Why anyone would ever want to do that is beyond me, but that’s what it fucking looked like.
Why body? Why?
How do you undo something that’s already been done? How do you make someone unsee something they’ve already seen?
Um, you don’t, jackass.
What the fuck am I gonna do? I can’t run home, I’ll never get back in time. What am I gonna do???!
My Mod Mate suggested tissue, but I was not buying it. Under the thin material of my bastard bra, tissue would look lumpy. People would think I had unsuccessfully tried to pad my bra. Um, no.
Then, I was struck with pure genius! I would cover my extra stubborn unmentionables with Post It notes! Pure genius, I tell you. Genius.
The denser consistency of the paper would surely keep those bad boys in place. Also, the sticky strip would ensure the Post It stayed were it needed to. Win.
My Mod Mate was unconvinced, but I was undeterred.
After successfully covering the last Captain Crunch Berry* (that kind of makes it sound like I have myriad berries. I assure you, I do not), I inspected my job in the mirror in the bathroom.
I thought it looked fine. I really did. Because I had to show my Mod Mate what a fine job I did with the Post Its, I went next door to show her I was probably going to have to patent my idea.
“Well, what do you think? You can’t see those two beacons of embarrassment anymore, right?”
Her response:
“OMG. No. No. No. Girl, you don’t have two nips anymore! No.”
I answered:
“Well, duh. That was that point. No more inappropriate nippage. No?”
She then said:
“No.”
I was at a loss. What could possibly be wrong with my Post It note nipple covers? They were genius.
She clarified:
“Well, for starters, you now you have eight nipples. Is that what you were going for? If so? Well done.”
The four corners of the Post It notes made weird octi-nipples under my sports bra. So, instead of two innocent, albeit, unpredictable doo-das, I had something going on that was straight out of the personal fetish collection of some freak.
Nope.
The Post It notes came out, and tissue was put in their place, and all was well.
I should probably listen to my friend and colleague a lot more. She’s pretty old and worldly like that.
In ending, ladies, never fashion nipple covers using Post It notes or other office supplies. Further, if this is ever a necessity, it’s time to buy a padded sports bra (preferably not one from the $1 bin at Walgreens).
This post is dedicated to my Mod Mate, the Oscar to my Felix, and the best damn colleague and friend I’ve ever been lucky enough to share a year-long “camping” adventure with. I’ll miss your random pop ins, how we could communicate with a single eyebrow raise, and the way you always “got” me. I love you. Enjoy your new school, ya bitch.
*Oscar coined this phrase to name a friend’s nips, and it was pure hilarity. I had to sneak it in.
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Decision Made
Well, I did it. I sent the email declining the job offer. Before anyone tells me I just lost an incredible opportunity, let me first be clear about a few things:
1. I’ve learned throughout this process that I need to stop taking to heart how others feel when what I really need to be doing is listening more intently to my own beat.
2. It’s really fucking expensive to move to another country, and until you know my finances intimately, you don’t really know. You know?
I don’t mean to sound rude, but it’s really, really hard to make such a huge decision when left and right you’re told that money doesn’t matter, or that you’re wussing out because you don’t want to be going down the road to bankruptcy town. All of my young adult years I went about my business as if money didn’t matter and it led to serious problems. I cannot continue down that path.
Continue reading “Decision Made”
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Spanx You Very Much
Ugh, Monday again. Didn’t we just have Monday last week?
If you are feeling like you can hardly bring yourself to get out of bed, or the thought of expending the energy it takes to bring your coffee cup to your lips makes you wish it was, at the very least, Tuesday, you might need a little boost. A boost in the form of a good, hearty belly laugh. Check out my latest post on Shopper Lottie. I can guarantee that it will at least make you chuckle. Also, don’t forget to let me know if I forgot anything in the comments over at SL.
Spanx A Lot
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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"”
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Inverness
This is a post I wrote years ago about a beautiful spot I discovered in Inverness, Scotland. There is not a day that goes by that I do not think of that trip. I yearn to go back. I left a piece of my heart in the British Isles, that’s for sure.
Continue reading “Inverness”
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Definitely
Well, today marked the end of my social life and any semblance of free time. Today, my first online course went live. My first assignments are due tomorrow, but like the smarty pants I am, I decided to get a head start (actually, tomorrow is my birthday, so I plan on doing nothing unpleasant all day long).
I am a huge proponent of working smarter not harder. Some examples of working smarter and not harder would be:
- Not reading all of your emails. You may miss a crucial email from your principal, but that is the risk you take when you receive 3,456,782 emails a day.
- Calling, “spraying down your shower with the detachable shower head every day when showering” cleaning your shower. It’s really genius multi-tasking, methinks.
- Choosing to only correct quizzes, class work, and exit tickets, but not homework, because you are not Super Can Do Everything Teacher, and ain’t nobody got time for that.
- Getting fast food all week, for dinner, because then you don’t need to wash dishes. Blam! Lots o’ time saved.
- Grading papers at red lights. AT LEAST I AM NOT TEXTING.
This is obviously an abridged list, and not complete. There are many ways in which you can save time by doing things the “smarter” way.
Today, I went about my usual “smarter not harder’ routine, and things were going swimmingly. I had skimmed through the course introduction page. I purchased books for the course on Amazon while listening to the tutorial on how to send a message to classmates. I typed up my first assignment in a record 3 minutes. I was on a real roll.
Then, immediately after turning my assignment in to the instructor, I turned in that same assignment on the discussion page, per the directions, and I noticed…
definetely.
Yes, this college graduate-self-professed-spelling-stickler-teacher, spelled ‘definitely’ incorrectly on her very first assignment for her masters in education.
I am killing it, guys.
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To Be a Blogger, or Not to Be, That is the Poll Topic
I am at a crossroads. I have a decision to make, and it is not an easy one. That is where all of you come in. Please help me in deciding what to do next. I have the option to start working on my masters. This will be a timely, expensive, yet rewarding experience. However, I also have the opportunity to put that on the back burner, so that I can continue writing, building my blog, and my following. The blogging future is an unknown, yet it excites me. Every fiber of my being wants success in writing, whatever that may be.
I really do not know what to do, but I do know, that I cannot do both. Blogging is practically a full-time job, so is working on a masters. If I tried to teach, blog, and work on my masters, something would slip, and it can’t be my teaching. I have to choose: blogging or masters.
I can’t decide. Help.
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Vroom Vroom
I’m so very sorry to my readers that I’ve been so quiet lately. This past weekend was a whirlwind of car shopping, Steampunk, stress, excitement, and car buying. Yes, I bought a car! All I want to do is drive. If I could comfortably sleep in my new car, you’d find me curled up in my sleeping bag, happy as a hippo.
She’s beautiful. Basically, I’m driving the Taj Mahal of cars. When your old car’s AC doesn’t kick in until you’re home, and it has holes-plural, anything is an improvement.
I have many plans for future posts: My 8th Grade Perm Debacle and Country Living-A City Girl Does Elko, to name just two.
Please bear with me, as it’s hard to write when you’re driving off into the sunset with your new lover.
Vroom vroom
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My Future Life
One of my all-time favorite bloggers, babysteps22 nominated me for the Future Challenge. I feel I must take a moment to profess my adoration for this fabulous fellow woman and writer. She was the first person I connected with on WordPress. I instantly fell in love with her wit and spunk. I saw a little of myself in her words, and I was intrigued by the stories of her life in India. When I realized how effortless it was to connect and relate to someone from a different country and culture, I knew my decision to blog and network with other writers from all over the world was the right one. I feel honored to be able to write from my heart, and that expression of who I am is felt in someone else, thousands of miles away. Really, honored is putting it mildly. Thank you, beautiful human, for being the catalyst and my inspiration to write and touch so many lives. Also, sorry it took me so long to complete this challenge *sheepishly, shamefully hoping for your forgiveness*
So, now that I’ve been thoroughly creepy and sickly sweet, I will move on to the actual challenge.
The rules:
Thank the blogger who nominated you. I think I over-thanked *check*. Next, link back to the original creator of the challenge, Dreams and Movie Screens, so they can see how far their challenge has spread *check*.
Then, share 5 things about your future, because obviously you’re a fortune-teller. Actually, in all seriousness, it’s like a dream board. The concept is, anyway. It’s pretty much a known fact that if you write down your goals, you’re like 90% more likely to accomplish them (or something like that).
Finally, nominate 5 bloggers to share their own future. My nominees are:
- Cat in the Cactus
- Carrots in My Carryon
- A Funny Thing Happened When I Was Learning Myself
- Island Smile
- Spiked Cupcake
I guess it’s now time to Windex my crystal ball, it gets pretty smudged with all the peering into the future that I do. I swear, I spend more time looking into the future than I do living in the present. It’s a problem, I know.
Also, I’ll have you all know, I’ve had to knock on my coffee table, end table, entry table, and every kitchen cabinet because OCD. One does not simply tell their own future without superstitions rearing their ugly heads. So, with that I’ll jinx it all and tell my future:
- I will finally have a damn dog. At the ripe-old-age of 32, I’ve never had to care for more than a ficus (and I promptly killed it). I know I’m ready to keep something other than myself alive. It’s time.
- I will break down and buy a new car. I’ve spent my entire driving life not having to pay an expensive car payment each month. I also drive a car that has no emergency brake, has a cardboard sun visor, a broken, disintegrating seat, and has to go through major repairs just to pass smog each year. It’s more than time I finally drive a car that doesn’t have parts falling off it as it speeds down the freeway. For everyone’s safety.
- I’ll be living in England. Somewhere lush, green, and homely. I’ll be so engrained in the British culture, I’ll be wearing wool sweaters, which I’ll properly refer to as jumpers, in July. I’ll not be able to go a day without my afternoon cuppa, and I’ll go on holiday to Italy, like it’s no big deal. I can already see myself walking along an old cobblestoned street in the drizzling rain, wearing plaid wellies.
- I will be a published writer. Maybe I’ll write a lighthearted, fictional chick lit story about a lovable heroine, or maybe my big break will come in the form of a gritty, controversial autobiography that shocks my loved ones and friends. It’s a crapshoot.
- I’ll finally be able to wear those expensive size 12 jeans that are collecting dust in the back of my closet. They’re circa 2009, and they have rinestones on the ass, in the shape of a fleur de lis, but they will fit like a second skin without leaving permanent indentations in my gut. A girl can dream.
So, what do you see in your future? Play along, so I’m not the only one who has horribly jinxed myself. It won’t feel quite so lonely if I’m not the only one who actually ends up being the crazy cat lady whose only trip to real life is my weekly cat food and Popov vodka run. Please play. Please.