Who puts padding in their shorts?

To my fellow spinners, and others;

In 2011, with my commitment to being fit, and the looming notion of the white dress I will have to wear, I have become a gym rat. 


Ok, gym rat is really way too aggressive of a title for me in that I hate the gym, hate most things about being there, curse in my head throughout my whole workout and leave as soon as I have done the mandatory time I prescribe myself of an hour. I guess gym rat also doesn’t work since I don’t own the seemingly staple uniform of a full lulu lemon outfit complete with a cute color coordinated headband, I don’t have my own gloves for weight lifting, nor did I, up until recently own headphones suitable for running- or a bra suitable for it for that matter.


But I go, begrudgingly. 


So by that effect, I am a gym rat. I diligently show up every single day less 1 day of rest and don my Joe Fresh workout gear (that I finally purchased last month after feeling more than inadequate amid the designer gym girls), pull my hair back in a pony and work it.

This is how I met spinning.

I was headed to my yoga class because, although I despise everything that is exercise, I have actually fallen in love with yoga and use it as a twice a week workout to reward myself for the rest of the god awful crap I do like squats. 


So, heading into yoga on a Monday night and the class is jammed. So full in fact that I could not find a space on the floor large enough to accommodate my sun warrior stance. I hate being smushed into a gym studio forced to have other people breathing down my neck so I opt to try anther class. Fortunately, my gym offers many so I walk in the next room- the spin room. Since the class was about 5 minutes in I really didn’t have time to debate my choice and hopped onto a bike- failing to adjust the necessary elements which would lead to intense subsequent arm and back pain in the days to follow- and span.

About 5 minutes further in I wanted to die. I thought to myself, "self, this is just what hell must be like". A crazed jacked up woman screaming at you from the front of the room to “give it all you’ve got” while people pedal while literally grunting everywhere. The man beside me was sweating so badly in the first 10 minutes that he had formed a full puddle on the ground and the girl to my other side, well, lets just say she was certainly not wearing deodorant and sweating just as much as the human pool man. 


Plus, my vagina hurt. There, I said it. I felt like I was being impregnated by the bike seat and my ass was numb.

I was just about to dismount and scuttle out of the room when the girl in front of me turned around- obviously, it was a friend and she was with another friend and I thought to myself “if I leave now, they will know I am a fraud”

- as a side note, and back to the gym rat idea-I love for people to think I am hard core. I LOVE being able to answer the “what are you doing tonight” question with “just hitting the gym”- it makes me feel like Hercules. As such, peer pressure always gets the better of me at the gym and anytime I see someone I know, I have to work that much harder.

But, once I made the commitment to stay in the class and ride on, it went by super fast.
The great thing about spin is that it is about 45 minutes, and possibly one of the best all around body workouts out there. You work your ass off, and even if you, like I did in that fateful class, don’t up your resistance and really work it- you are still working like a total crazy hyena bitch. You seriously burn about 400-500 calories in 45 minutes- beat that stairmaster.

Plus, because you are working SO hard, you reach an almost nirvana state of mind and the time just blows by.

Also, they play super good music that helps transport you out of our foot smelling gym room and onto a mountain or somewhere else sexy and inspiring.

So, needless to say, I spin now all the time. Can you imagine how I almost wet myself when I found out that there was spinning in my new office building (and yoga too)!!!!!!

I do 3 days of spinning, 2 yoga and I seriously feel fantastic.
However, it is not all rainbows and butterflies. My vagina stopped hurting after 1 time, my ass has never recovered. I see that the hardcore spinners, the ones that have their own shoes and shit bring padded bike seats or have padded shorts- I think it is so embarrassing but contemplate it every time I pass a sports store- im sure I will cave and buy those stupid diaper shorts sometime.

Anyways, spinning- so great. I took a class last week and the instructor ran it to the soundtrack from Tron. I died.  

Hip to be square?

So, not that I ever had false illusions that I was a mega cool person- when you wear glasses that mimic Harry Potter you can rest assured that you are not so super cool- but I also didn’t realize that I am a dork. I think.
So as you may know by now, I have a new job and as such, I have the pleasure (torture) of meeting all these new people. I hate meeting people. I am always sure they think I am a total spaz- mostly because for some unknown reason I tend to mumble my otherwise well articulated words into weird sounds and then turn red and slink away. I think I am one of those people that to know me is to love me- I just hate the getting to knowing part..
But of course, in any new situation, there are a lot of generic topics ad questions about your general interests. I have been listening to the answers I give and have come to the grand conclusion that I am not the coolest cube in the ice tray.

The evidence:
-my co worker asks me what I did all weekend- I go into a 15 minute rave about the Board Game café where I spent my entire Saturday playing Carrcasson (obviously no one has heard about this game or knows what the shit I am talking about) and Fireball Island while dreaming about the huge game of Dungeons and Dragons (or something like it) at the table next to me.

-I reveal my lifelong obsession with WWF (WWE) wrestling and when the person I am talking to begins to reference some older wrestling characters and I think he is into what I am saying I ask if he had seen the comeback of the Rock (that just happened). Of course he hadn't because I am sure that only me and American inbreeds still watch wrestling with a vengeance.

-the one (and only) time I go outside to smoke with some of the girls I work with, instead of lighting my cigarette, I turn on the lighters attached flashlight. This happens 4 times in a row.

-I have said “oh neat” about 200 times so far. Neat? Really? Neat? Is it? Is it neat?

Shall I keep updating on this one?

Suffice to say that mostly every minute I do something to embarrass myself.

Come Fly With Me.....

A week ago, although by now it feels like 7 years ago, in the grand tradition of vacations quickly fading away once “real life” hits, I went to Chicago.
Chicago is great- a really fun city with tons to do, clean streets, friendly people and nice green space. Loved it. Going back in August.

So, I know that it is so bratty to bitch about having to fly to go on my weekend jaunt to the USA- but I’m doing it anyways because, dear reader, I can... and I f-ing hate flying that much.

Airports to me are on the same “fear of space” level as a hospital. Like hospitals, airports have clinging smells that permeate your entire being within seconds of entering. It is a combination of body odor, sterilization and fear and despite what you may think- not a happy combination.
I tend to breath through my mouth as much as possible (even though I have always maintained that in breathing through your mouth you are like, eating the bad smell instead of smelling it) and as such, I end up spending way too much money on water and such. Obviously, you cant bring a damn thing on your flight so instead they charge you 100 dollars for a shitty bottle of Dassani water... But that’s sort of acceptable- if I trapped you in hell and your only option was to buy from me you can bet your bottom dollar I would charge you an arm and a leg just to blink...

Moving on, my second biggest qualm with airports are the policies at airports. For example, although we had paid for a flight, upon arriving at the appropriately designated counter, we found that although we had a ticket, we didn’t actually have seat and that we would have to wait for a “bidding war” to obtain seats that would not be together. Are you joking me? Really?

1. im a shitty flyer- the added stress of sitting beside a stranger knowing without an ounce of doubt that said stranger will be on the receiving end of my hysterics and will likely (for sure) leave his/her flight with bloody nail marks from where I have dug into their skin upon take off and landing just makes my anxiety worse- My fiancé is marrying me- he has signed up for my nonsense. The balding man with the pit stains at my counter has not.

 2. Fucking American Airlines and their stupid bidding wars- who would want to win a bid and get more American Airlines money to use on another American Airlines flight when you are getting totally screwed on the first one?

Any who- in case you were wondering, I shed tears and managed to finagle 2 seats together at the front of the plane both ways...did that make my experience better? No. but never underestimate an overly anxious hungry crying plantain.

So, that aside we headed over to “security”. I’m not putting quotes to suggest that there is no airport security, because as my fiancé found out, there sure is. I put those quotes because, upon random selection, my fiancé was subjected to a full search- less the special search behind closed doors...
Listen, it is totally possible that 2 young adults with lulu lemons and uggs on, holding hands and carrying ipads are smuggling drugs and weapons into the united states- but also, not really. I get random selection to make people feel less targeted and to provide a fair sense of personal invasion to everyone at the airport, but had a terrorist looking dude passed us as my fiancés luggage got unpacked to reveal a lot of condoms and hair products, I would have felt that our system is a total sham.


I absolutely hate the security portion of the experience anyways. These people in their stupid blue suits actualy have the legal right to shove a finger in your ass if they think it is necessary. That is way too much power for me to relax and unclench- and then, as a result, I babble- which I tend to do when I get nervous- and that just makes me look suspicious and nervous... A vicious cycle no?

I just don’t think that anyone, anywhere can just point at you and then subsequently be able to finger your asshole.

Finally, the flight. Some overly flamboyant steward giggling at his even more flamboyant co-steward as they demonstrate the seatbelt, a brief message from our captain who lets us know that there has been “a slight technical issue, but not to worry, it will be fixed in a jiffy” (because that’s fucking calming) and a kid who sits behind me begging his mom for money to purchase 10 dollar d chips and 5 dollar juice- built in birth control.

Anyways... Flying. Hate it. Dream of being the exotic traveler like the sexy woman who sat in front of us drinking red wine and reading a book on economics even while the plane was taking off and landing wearing a fabulous outfit and carrying her own inflatable neck pillow. My reality- sweating through my clothing with fear, whining every time the plane makes any kind of noise- once tried to get drunk on a flight and barfed for 10 hours.....lets call it a work in progress....

Stupid Greedy Rat

Ed. note: as mentioned in the body of the blog itself, the word "greedy" should be understood both as the formal definition of greedy and also as; stupid, ignorant, ridiculous, annoying, stupid- did I mention stupid??? I really mean stupid.


Dear unnamed man who ran me over with his bike which had a small compartment attached carrying his toddler child this morning on the street.
Thanks.

Now, granted, I was running late for work this morning- a crisis created by my lack of things to wear that can hide my currently slightly chubby arms- so late I was, and I was definitely rushing and certainly not looking up to make sure that bike riding assholes noticed me, the pedestrian as they crossed the street where I was also crossing in the opposite direction but is that really any excuse?
This is why I hate bike riders. Sure, you are doing the universe a favor by skipping out on automobile pollution but being greeny does not afford you the venue to also be greedy. (like that one?)

Greedy= taking up more than your share of the road- shouldn’t have to switch lanes just to pass you by. Bikes are narrow and small and there is more than enough room for a good driver and a good biker to share a space
Greedy= riding your 2 wheeler on the sidewalk and then having the audacity to ring your stupid little bike bell at me to get out of the way. Pretty sure that you belong on the road. How would you like it if I rang a little wimpy bell at you to get out of my way?
Greedy= 3 of you riding side by side through the beltline. Cant we all just share the green space? Do I need to slow down my walking or running pace to be met by a barricade of you? I know you are not conversing through the helmets you are meant to be wearing (see next point) so cant you just follow one another?
Greedy= not wearing your helmets. I think the rule is that after 18 you are free to bike without a helmet- you are also free to drink turpentine at any age, eat a blob of dog shit or color your skin neon pink and call yourself neon man- that’s the beauty of living in a free country- that doesn’t mean that you should do it. I, for one, don’t care to see the innards of your skull when you get hit on your bike and smash it on the pavement. I think it is pretty greedy to think that you are exempt from freak/ non-freak accidents- maybe greedy isn't the word here- maybe stupid and ignorant are better choice but for the purpose of this blog- lets go with greedy and assume it to mean idiotic.

Greedy= this rat of a man pedaling his toddler in a tent on wheels behind his stupid bike right through the pedestrians without even looking up hopping onto the sidewalk- which was the exact locartion of the crime, and running me down. His tent attachment literally ran over me- great thing for your child to witness no doubt.

So to you dear man, dear greedy, awful man, I bid you some strong curse words and a warning to use your bike for the good it can do (no pollution and a fun way to et around the beautiful city we live in) and mind your wheels before the run over my too- expensive boots. Next time, you wont just get a loud name calling.....  

Dear woman in matching pink velour track pants and hoody. Where do I even begin with you?
You and your wildly outdated outfit and totally tacky matching pink tote came rumbling down the stairs and before I even noticed your heinously matched outfit, I was aghast at your ass which occupied its own small stratosphere. If I had an ass that big- I would wear black, black all the time, you chose barbie vomit pink. Not the wisest choice to showcase your ample derrière.
You got to the subway platform and proceeded to whack me and everyone in your path as you made your way to the tracks. There was no car there yet mind you, but it seemed that you just couldn’t wait to be close up to the doors to come. Funny enough cow woman, the doors passed right by you and opened right in front of me. This made you mad cow girl, didn't it? You just saw those doors and the possibility of doing less physical movement wiz right by you didn’t you? 


So instead or graciously waiting like every other person in the subways station did for the current passengers on said car to unload, what did you do? You just shoved your way right through them. I saw you shove them, hurt them with your ginormous body, look them in the eye and keep going wall the while shoveling your face with a half eaten McDonalds ice cream cone and gazing at a cheap ghetto pink cell phone. 


Who could you be texting in a subway terminal with no reception? Likely you are playing bejewelled and don’t give a shit that you have just stepped on a poor old ladies toe while trying to wedge your way into an optimal subway spot for the ride North.


I giggled inside because, you moron, all you have done is crammed yourself and every one of your chins into the very center of the car where I hope you get sweaty upper lip from being squeezed by those around you.
I of course, having waited like considerate people do to board the car, get a much better spot near the doors. Boy cow woman, did you take a shining to me that day because through the crowd you pushed just to get the spot I was occupying. Since I am about one tenth your size, you won the battle and I was shoved into some man’s armpit for the next 3 stops before you waddled your ass off the car at St.Clair station.
I call you a cow woman, not because your body literally resembled a cow, but because you just moved through people like an unaware stupid animal who you can only feel sorry for because it is certain that their brains are so small and irreverent that they cannot possibly comprehend how cow-ish they actually are. Also because you chewed your gum with your mouth open for 30 minutes straight.

And hey cow woman, as a big fat PS. Velour tracksuits went out with moonboots.
What what.

It is what it is

So, I'm not sure if it is a generational thing but I am assuming it is. A statement of complacency from a generation of my peers that live with the perpetual anxiety that we will never be as well off as our parents and that the efforts made in trying to be are as futile as Vanilla Ice trying to revive his career as a serious actor.

But whatever the underlying cause, "it is what it is" as a completely acceptable response has overwhelmed basic conversation and stuck its claim as the answer to most of life's queries.

How doctor depresso is that as a statement??

First of all, of course it is what it is. How fucking stupid is that even as an idea- what else would it possibly be? It is what it isnt? Are we living in wonderland with Alice? No, no we are not and it obviously is what it is.

But, that being said, the finality and concreteness of this statement is scary, complacent, lazy and just altogether stupid.

Like what? We cant change anything? Some one will say "I am so depressed about my _____ (fill in the blank) and the legit response will be "it is what it is"???? How completely uninspiring. What about what it could be? Saying that makes it seem like you don't believe in change and without change you get the lazy bum kids mooching off of their parents, never aspiring to much, because hey, it is what it is.

My birthday resolution. Stop using that horrible line as an "intellectual" answer.

French Fry Satan

So here is another issue with my commute to and from work.

On my way there it happens about 10 minutes from getting off the highway and on my way home about 15 minutes from leaving the office and it is the worst thing ever. Ever.

What is this horrible happenstance you ask?

Well, at the above mentioned junctures in the road, no matter what time of year, no matter what time of day and no matter whether or not I have the air or heat on, like an aggressive telemarketer, the heavy smell of McDonalds French fries wafts through my car.

Ok, so first and foremost, this is weird because there are no McDonalds lining the 401 and in fact, the buildings that are all have giant smoke stacks and look uber industrial and nothing like a McDonalds. So that’s weird right?

I know that everything McDonalds is scorned for being super processed and made out of random bits and pieces but I reject the notion that their French fries are made in a plant on the side of the highway with a smokestack. Because they are real potatoes. Right? Real ones?

Anyways, so, very strange for sure that this smell comes from seemingly nowhere but also as a former fat kid, this provides me with a serious issue.

In my former days, French fries were my biggest vice. On a normal and average day I would eat about 2 full plates of French fries (and my feelings) and top it off with one of those cheese and broccoli baked potatoes. To say that the spud is better than sex would seem ridiculous to some but to me, although I do place sex higher, I totally understand. When I made the commitment to lose weight, and after my dabble in “eat nothing but apples all day for weeks” and “eat 3 raisins every 30 minutes diet” I did the right thing and gave my diet an overhaul to ensure that everything I ate was healthy, local, organic if possible and in moderation. The only drastic measure I took was to fully eliminate potatoes and all potato esque things from my world. To the point that in my most favorite of all processed soups, Vegetarian Vegetable by Cambells, I would pick out the tiny chunks of potato and leave them for the green bin.

I would claim a potato allergy, if asked, and would avoid them like the plague.

A few years ago, many pounds later, I felt ready to reintroduce potato into my world. I knew I had to exercise extreme caution as my love of French fries could easily, at any given moment, cause me to shovel literal pounds of them into my mouth.

I have since been ok, breaking every so often for some poutine, or a plate of cafeteria, extra oily deliciousness with Ketchup

But. If you are going to stink up my car twice a day, every week at times where I am always hungry, then to hell (or my stomach) with you potato.

How unfair that after an 8 hour day, having likely spent my late afternoon “snacking” on carrot sticks you come in, uninvited, to my car and tempt my every fiber with your unhealthy and fat inducing scent. How can I come home and make a grilled chicken salad dinner with any ounce of happiness with your aroma lingering in my nostrils?

And, in the morning, how can I enjoy digestion of my Kefir and berry mixture while you are in the air. You but remind me of the bacon and sausage and waffles and pancakes that I would be eating if not for my ass (and arteries).

As if my commute was not bad enough, you go ahead and make it even more awful.

I am 100 percent sure that if I believed in hell, my personal hell would be to live forever in a room full of fresh and frozen French fries alike and have to just smell them but never get to eat them. So whoever is producing the smell, to me, is Satan.

You, French fry scent demon, are not my friend.