Monday, December 14, 2009
Since I got home a good week ahead of most of my friends, I have gotten into a routine of utter laziness. So, when I rose this afternoon from my slumber I decided that today was the day to turn my Christmas break around, turn over a new poinsettia if you will. I grabbed my ipod and phone and trekked my way to the YMCA. I had forgotten how great it feels to actually do something of use with my body. I started off with some stretches, then moved on to weights. I figured a good finale would be some cardio on the stationary bike. I did a couple loops around the workout area and found an open bike. I was seated next to an older man who looked to have been doing his cardio far longer than the recommended 30 minutes a day. He had headphones on and a book in front of him that I was sure he was not reading because I could see his eyes fluttering open and shut. I wasn't too concerned because he was still pedaling away. And even if he did seem to be entering a near comatose state, he was still getting the workout he came for. He clearly had no idea I was there (in fact I'm not sure he even knew he was there) and he continued to pedal and sweat away. As our workouts progressed, a rancid smell began to make its way to my nostrils. I knew it couldn't be me because what I was doing would hardly constitute as a workout, plus I wasn't sweaty at all and had applied more than enough deodorant before going to the Y. I had no doubt the rank scent was coming from my friend the next bike over. Once I was aware of the smell, I couldn't think of anything else. I tried with all of my might to think about something, anything pleasant but my mind kept drifting back to that scent. Never in my life had I smelled anything like it, and I live with all boys. If I had to describe it I would say it was one part sweaty jock-strap, two parts mayonnaise, and a dollop of expired Daisy. I promised myself relief if I could just finish the mile I was on. About the same time I was finishing up, so was he. With a good dozen grunts he managed to maneuver himself off of the bike as I watched attentively. He picked up his towel and began wiping off his seat. How respectful, I thought. He then continued wiping not only the seat but the bike itself. My eyes followed the rag as it made its way down the seat-adjust and the base of the bike, all of which were drenched in sweat. It looked as though he had spilled a gallon of water all over the bike and himself. Instead of being grossed out, I found this absolutely fascinating. How could a human make such a mess? Does he have some sort of condition? Is it contagious? I do feel a bit faint, perhaps I have developed it myself. I could feel my mouth getting dry, it had been wide open the entire three minute period it had taken him to clean up his (and now my) area. I decided I best leave before the aroma clung to me, after all I had a reputation to uphold. So I promptly shut my gaping mouth, hopped off the bike, and left the Y. Luckily, I was able to maintain balance and avoid slipping in the sweat puddle. Perhaps tomorrow I will make my way back to the Y and if I am lucky enough the sweat-ster will be there as well. And if I keep it up the two of us just may have a future together.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
I'll start by saying I am not a golfer. Sure, I have a set of clubs that I got on my eleventh birthday, and yeah I played in the Dallas Morning News Junior PGA tournament the following summer, and oh yeah I scored a 75 but that was a whole decade ago. These days although I am no Annika Sorenstam, I do turn the Golf Channel every now and then to watch everyone's (ex) favorite, Tiger. Was I as surprised as everyone else to hear about all of his slutty little shenanigans? Well, no. And I'll tell you why. I, too, was one of el Tigre's many lovers. Meow. Actually that’s hardly the truth; we merely shared an innocent little make out session, but let’s not get too personal. Any way, after hearing about all of the women coming out and saying they too had slept with Tiger, I decided to do some exploring. Now I don't want to be too grotesque (oh who am I kidding? Of course I WANT to be grotesque, but I'm going to be PG here). Of all the various sex kittens Tiger involved his woods and irons with, my personal favorite was erotica star Holly Sampson. Now, I am not going to list her filmography myself (though I do have plenty of my own personal commentary to add), I will instead encourage all four of you, my followers, to look over it yourself- http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0760175/. And for those of you whose chins are still on your desk after hearing of my 75 at age 11, it’s only fair (and humbling) to tell you that it was on 9 holes.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
I woke up bright and early this morning to root my oldest brother on in the White Rock Half Marathon. My parents and I met up with my cousin, Charlie and Aunt Leslie at about the 5 mile marker. Although I was sleepy and groggy I did manage to muster up plenty of enthusiasm for those scampering by. I hollered the few names I could make out from their bibs and I made up some names of my own. I whooped and "way to go"-ed. While most of the other onlookers cheered and clapped for the runners, my dad thought it would be a good idea to bring a bell. I understood this, that way you don't grow hoarse from all the screaming and it makes plenty of noise, so the runners know you are cheering them on. A cowbell would have been the perfect instrument. Or not. Instead, my dad picked up the only bell he could find: a Norman Rockwell glass Christmas bell. It looked to me like some sort of antique passed from generation to generation, like something we should have kept in a vault of some sort (or maybe just thrown away with last years mince meat pie). It didn't clag or clatter consistently, but it did manage to ding and dong every four or so flicks of the wrist. That way, as a runner you had about a 25% chance of being cheered on. For the first hundred or so runners that went by I thought the bell was a real hit. I was loving it! It was just the thing to get someone in the Christmas (or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa) spirit. This didn't last long. Once the second and third hundred started coming through, the clanging seemed to be getting higher and higher in pitch. It was becoming increasingly irritating. I started feeling myself tense up, first in my neck and then my clapping hands began to form two tight fists. As my knuckles were turning white, I noticed Charlie was beginning to voice his opinions on the bell, too. I was about ready to take the Christmas bell and stomp on it until Norman Rockwell's little kissing characters were shattered into pieces. Luckily, by this time my brother had already passed us. We were ready to leave our little cheer perch and make our way to the finish line. On the way to the car my dad continued to ring the bell. I asked him to nicely "can it" with the bell. I didn't want to be a Scrooge, but com'on, we (the family, the onlookers, the runners) had all had more than enough. If it's true that every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings, then please do not be alarmed if you see an angel this Christmas season that looks to have some sort of angelic gene mutation with say, four sets of wings.
Friday, December 11, 2009
I flew home last Thursday to attend a Christmas party for my dad's bank. Not only was I looking forward to this for the delectable catering, but I was also excited because it would be my first year to attend as an adult, meaning I could guzzle down as much vino as I wanted (or at least until my mother gave me "the look"). I foolishly assumed that because I knew I was 21 and my parents knew I was 21, then just about everyone else would know that also, as though once you reach the big 2-1 something drastic changes and it is known by all that you can now booze legally. Now when I say booze I don't mean I was planning on getting tanked or hammered or smashed or crunk or whatever else you can get. I just mean that I could throw a few back with the boys, kick my feet up, get loosey goosey. Kidding, I simply mean I can have a glass of wine (or a tad more) without committing a misdemeanor.
Unfortunately, my dreams of "bottoms up" weren't quite as relaxing as I had imagined. I don't know what it is but parents love (I mean LOVE) to crack jokes about alcohol. They can fall into one of two categories: the "I remember when I was your age" category or the "You sure you're old enough" category. The first ones make for much better company. And the second, not so much. Let's make this easy and call the "I remember when I was your age"-ers Team Cool and we'll call those other mongrels Team Uncool. Team Cool likes to make toasts to things like "the nights we'll never remember with the people we'll never forget" and challenge us newbies with "That's all ya got?"s and to the minors, "Lemme sneak ya a little something extra". Team Uncool basically only has one line which they seem to think is a real knee-slapper (I'm here to say it is not): "Can I see an I.D.?". For whatever reason, Team Uncool thinks this line is really the bees knees. Team Uncool is usually made up of parents who think they are funny and hip while Team Cool doesn't think they are cool, they know it. I encountered only a handful of Team Uncool members at the bank party, which I suppose should say a lot about my dad.
Unfortunately, that wasn't quite the case at a wedding I attended recently. I'm pretty sure the brother of the groom may have also been the president of Team Uncool. He pulled the whole "I.D" card more times than I can count, in fact it began to get a bit nauseating. The worst part was that each time he said it he thought it was a little funnier than the time before... it wasn't. Now I can usually muster up a fake laugh for awhile and seem at least somewhat sincere. This one just got out of hand, especially considering at this point I really was legal, which makes it far less entertaining and far more infuriating. I pulled out my fresh new license and was about ready to shove it up his pretty little.....when ahh alas, the bride and groom were whisked away onto their honeymoon and thus the reception was over. His Majesty Uncool doesn't know quite how lucky he is.
In the past month and a half since my becoming an adult I have had the honor of dealing with both Teams and in these fifty days or so I have decided that when I bore children I hope to be initiated into Team Cool and avoid Team Uncool at all costs. No one wants to be that mom. Unfortunately, back at the bank party, my vino guzzling didn't last long, "the look" from my mother came first, along with her nicely taking the glass from my hand and casually setting it on the table before carrying on her mingling way.