So, my closing was supposed to happen yesterday, but it didn't. I found out last Wednesday that the underwriters needed some extra paperwork from my HOA, which would take the HOA about a week to get together and cost $500. My realtor valiantly fought to get the seller, CitiMortgage, to cover the costs, but they refused. I'm not actually all that bent out of shape about the money; in the grand scheme of things it's not that much (I just spent $900 on a fridge I chose solely based on the fact that the condiment shelves on the door are removable and dishwasher-safe). But in principal, I got screwed. This paperwork the underwriters needed was part of the vast sea of bullshit you have to swim through now to get a mortgage thanks to the housing market crash. And the housing market crash was due in large part to foreclosures, which were caused by people defaulting on their mortgages, and I can honestly say I have never once in my life given anyone a sub-prime mortgage, HOW ABOUT YOU, CITIMORTGAGE?
I'm just saying, you guys. I'M JUST SAYING.
I'm a huge stickler for fairness, especially when I'm the one who's not being treated fairly. Now, obviously, I know that the universe is vast and random, and it would be unreasonable to expect that everything should work out exactly the way I feel it should. I don't even really believe in karma or any other sort of cosmic justice system. I think more than anything it's the sense of powerlessness, knowing that you know how things should be but aren't able to change them or convince other people to change them for you.
Case in point: I was a pretty good kid in grade school, but the one thing I would constantly lose my shit over was when the teacher punished the whole class for something only a few kids were doing. I would sit and argue with my teachers about being punished (and in retrospect, my goodness, what was wrong with these adults that they would engage in heated arguments with an 8-year-old?), about how it wasn't fair that I had to write sentences or stay inside from recess just because other people were talking. But it never worked. So I would sit and endure my punishment and stew. I tried every form of subversive protest I could think of - writing smart-alecky parenthetical asides in my sentences, really, really enjoying my recess time spent at my desk, even loudly commenting on how sad it was that the teacher wasn't playing close enough attention to her class to figure out who the real troublemakers were. But nothing ever worked. Finally, one day, I think in Seventh grade, I was arguing with my teacher over some stupid punishment and getting nowhere when inspiration struck. I turned to my teacher and said, "You know who else had to suffer for other people's wrongdoings? Jesus. So every time you punish me for something I didn't do, I become more Christ-like. Thank you."
I didn't get out of the punishment, but at least my teacher was too dumbfounded to get me into any real trouble. And I learned that day that the combination of scriptural knowledge and complete disregard for the consequences of speaking my mind was a dangerous weapon, one whose power would only be rivaled by my discovery a few years later that guys didn't care how small your boobs were as long as you had nice legs. Yes, I had learned what countless numbers of politicians, theologians, and opinionated people had learned before me: You can use the Bible to prove yourself right. And suddenly, I had a super power. The power to end any conversation in my favor by name-checking the Almighty. A way to be an asshole, but in a way that made you not sound like an asshole, but somehow that made it even more of an asshole-ish thing to do.
So, no, I'm not all that upset about losing $500 dollars and a week of home-ownership. Actually, I'm feeling a sense of peace about the whole ordeal. As I sit here in my non-air conditioned bedroom I'm reminded of a young man who lived 2000 years ago who was stuck somewhere he knew he didn't belong, his stepdad's carpentry shop. A young man who, years later, would also suffer at the hands of a corrupt institution being propped up by the government. We're not so different, he and I.
Thank you, CitiMortgage. I feel closer to heaven already.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
HOLD ON, YOU GUYS
I just took a look at the ol' Blogger dashboard and realized I have like five or six half-finished posts from the last couple of months. We can blame that on the fact that I'm a perfectionist and I don't have the attention span to do anything from start to finish, or we can list off a couple of quick excuses that make it seem like I've been really busy lately. One of those options involves lots of links, and the other involves lots of crying. Let's do this shit.
I started hula hooping. Then I started making hoops. Making hula hoops, as it turns out, is easier than actually hula hooping. I can't do tricks, but I can waist-hoop for 30 or 40 minutes a day on my lunch break. And, more importantly, I can allow my coworkers to believe that the 23 pounds I've lost since March were due to said daily hooping regimen rather than my other daily regimen, stress and amphetamines (seriously, Adderall killed my appetite. It's totally gone. You know what else is gone? My ass. And I miss it so, so much). So I've been making exercise hoops for my coworkers. I'm a hoop mogul now. A robber hooper baron. J. Pierpont Hoopsalot Morgan (Arcane references to Gilded Age industrialists are not, to my knowledge, a known side effect of Adderall).
It was my friend Laura who initially got me into hooping. Laura is also the reason that...
I'm stage managing a Fringe Festival show. It's Laura's show, and she needed a stage manager. I don't know what that is, but I do know how to Google, and I also know who Scooter from the Muppet Show is, so I should be okay. And the more I read, the more it seems like stage managing has basically the same skill set as directing a handbell choir. Actors are easier to deal with than church ladies, right? I can do this, right? "Stage managing" is an actual verb, right??
On the upside, the show will take up the time that I would have spent thinking...
Holy fucking shit, I bought this!
Because even though it's all but official at this point, every time I think about it, I experience this strange mix of incredulity and swear words. I'm buying a goddamn house. In 12 days it will be mine. Well, mine and Wells Fargo's. 20% mine, at least. And let me tell you something about accomplishing a major milestone such as this: you think, oh, look at me, being a grown up, but the farther into the process you go, the more you realize you have no fucking clue. I had to start carrying more auto insurance (more than the state minimum, for once) because people can sue you if you cause an accident and you don't have enough insurance to pay for it? What? Even though it looks like a townhouse, it's really a condo? How is that possible? I have dozens of pages of homeowner's association documents, and none of them say how long you can keep your Christmas decorations up, even though that's the only thing I thought associations controlled? And for some reason, there are like 12,000 fucking washers and dryers on the market, and at least as many refrigerators, and you can reach a point where all the paint chips start to look the same, and you can't decide, because all you really wanted was a grey bedroom and WHY IS THAT SO HARD??
Okay, maybe this option had some crying too.
But, I have scene changes to highlight and hoops to tape. And lots and lots of boxes to pack. So this is the end, just a few minutes after I started writing (Thanks, Adderall, although focus won't make up for the missing butt).
Alright then. Back to work.
I started hula hooping. Then I started making hoops. Making hula hoops, as it turns out, is easier than actually hula hooping. I can't do tricks, but I can waist-hoop for 30 or 40 minutes a day on my lunch break. And, more importantly, I can allow my coworkers to believe that the 23 pounds I've lost since March were due to said daily hooping regimen rather than my other daily regimen, stress and amphetamines (seriously, Adderall killed my appetite. It's totally gone. You know what else is gone? My ass. And I miss it so, so much). So I've been making exercise hoops for my coworkers. I'm a hoop mogul now. A robber hooper baron. J. Pierpont Hoopsalot Morgan (Arcane references to Gilded Age industrialists are not, to my knowledge, a known side effect of Adderall).
It was my friend Laura who initially got me into hooping. Laura is also the reason that...
I'm stage managing a Fringe Festival show. It's Laura's show, and she needed a stage manager. I don't know what that is, but I do know how to Google, and I also know who Scooter from the Muppet Show is, so I should be okay. And the more I read, the more it seems like stage managing has basically the same skill set as directing a handbell choir. Actors are easier to deal with than church ladies, right? I can do this, right? "Stage managing" is an actual verb, right??
On the upside, the show will take up the time that I would have spent thinking...
Holy fucking shit, I bought this!
 |
| Pictured: How the hell did this even happen?! |
Okay, maybe this option had some crying too.
But, I have scene changes to highlight and hoops to tape. And lots and lots of boxes to pack. So this is the end, just a few minutes after I started writing (Thanks, Adderall, although focus won't make up for the missing butt).
Alright then. Back to work.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
We do improv all the time! This conversation, right now? ALL IMPROV.
Last night Heather and I went to see Uptown the Musical, produced by our lovely friends at Box Wine Theatre. We got sushi before the show in Calhoun Square then walked to Intermedia Arts. We were still a little early and not feeling quite hipster-ish enough (we talked about riding bikes, but we didn't, total missed opportunity), so we stopped in a nearby thrift shop.
Now, I'm not big on used clothing, since it seems people in the 70s were not proportioned the way I am. Which is weird, because I came from two people who were my age in the 70s. What did they wear? I assume my mom wore hippie clothes she sewed herself, and my dad wore Black Panther-style leather jackets and berets, and neither look is really my style. Also, that is probably untrue, since my parents were suburban, middle-class Republicans with day jobs and night classes. All of this is to say, I buy clothes online from the Gap, because they sell pants with freakishly long inseams that are shipped to me sealed in plastic, and I never have to speak to another human being. Total opposite of the thrift store experience.
So on the rare occasion I find myself in a thrift store, I don't even bother trying to shop and instead gravitate towards the most ridiculous-looking thing I can find. It's almost always the rack of formal dresses, and last night was no exception. The first dress I picked up was a yellow and silver sequined strapless dress with the 80s flare-out thing that hit around the knees. So sparkly. So poofy. I loved it.
Anyway, the dress prompted the following conversation, which I think sums up the relationship Heather and I have pretty well.
Naomi: [Picks up dress] "Oooh!"
Heather: "Oooh! Sparkly!"
"Yeah." [Puts dress back.] "I need your opinion on something. I'm thinking of making a hoop* with sparkle tape and lace. Does that sound good, or would it be too much?"
"No, that sounds awesome!"
"Okay. It's just..."
"What?"
"Well, I have a whole closet full of sequined clothes, and I'm going to make a dress for the Iveys this year that has a feather skirt..."
"Oh yeah, I saw the link you posted about that!"
"Right, it'll be awesome. But with the feathers, and the sequins, and the lace...it's just that sometimes I worry that I'll wake up one morning and discover that I've transformed into a gay pride parade float."
"Oh. Well, if that happens, I'll throw candy at you!"
"Thanks, and I'll throw condoms at you!"
And probably the best photo to illustrate this story: Heather and I on New Year's Eve 2010, very sparkly and maybe just a tiny bit intoxicated. Not to be confused with New Year's Eve 2009, when I woke up the next morning on Heather's couch wearing a t-shirt that said "I'd Rather Be Riding Ginger!" That does not sum up our relationship at all.
(The show was a ton of fun, by the way. Check it out at the Fringe Festival. And check out Heather's show, which I am now morally obligated to promote since she'd let me throw condoms at her if I were a gay pride parade float. This is the new standard by which all future relationships will be measured.)
*More on this later. Okay, maybe just a little bit right now!
Now, I'm not big on used clothing, since it seems people in the 70s were not proportioned the way I am. Which is weird, because I came from two people who were my age in the 70s. What did they wear? I assume my mom wore hippie clothes she sewed herself, and my dad wore Black Panther-style leather jackets and berets, and neither look is really my style. Also, that is probably untrue, since my parents were suburban, middle-class Republicans with day jobs and night classes. All of this is to say, I buy clothes online from the Gap, because they sell pants with freakishly long inseams that are shipped to me sealed in plastic, and I never have to speak to another human being. Total opposite of the thrift store experience.
So on the rare occasion I find myself in a thrift store, I don't even bother trying to shop and instead gravitate towards the most ridiculous-looking thing I can find. It's almost always the rack of formal dresses, and last night was no exception. The first dress I picked up was a yellow and silver sequined strapless dress with the 80s flare-out thing that hit around the knees. So sparkly. So poofy. I loved it.
Anyway, the dress prompted the following conversation, which I think sums up the relationship Heather and I have pretty well.
Naomi: [Picks up dress] "Oooh!"
Heather: "Oooh! Sparkly!"
"Yeah." [Puts dress back.] "I need your opinion on something. I'm thinking of making a hoop* with sparkle tape and lace. Does that sound good, or would it be too much?"
"No, that sounds awesome!"
"Okay. It's just..."
"What?"
"Well, I have a whole closet full of sequined clothes, and I'm going to make a dress for the Iveys this year that has a feather skirt..."
"Oh yeah, I saw the link you posted about that!"
"Right, it'll be awesome. But with the feathers, and the sequins, and the lace...it's just that sometimes I worry that I'll wake up one morning and discover that I've transformed into a gay pride parade float."
"Oh. Well, if that happens, I'll throw candy at you!"
"Thanks, and I'll throw condoms at you!"
And probably the best photo to illustrate this story: Heather and I on New Year's Eve 2010, very sparkly and maybe just a tiny bit intoxicated. Not to be confused with New Year's Eve 2009, when I woke up the next morning on Heather's couch wearing a t-shirt that said "I'd Rather Be Riding Ginger!" That does not sum up our relationship at all.
 |
| Those are the faces of people who do not normally stay up past midnight or wear heels for more than two hours. Friggin' CHAMPIONS. |
(The show was a ton of fun, by the way. Check it out at the Fringe Festival. And check out Heather's show, which I am now morally obligated to promote since she'd let me throw condoms at her if I were a gay pride parade float. This is the new standard by which all future relationships will be measured.)
*More on this later. Okay, maybe just a little bit right now!
Monday, May 23, 2011
Evolution of an absurd inside joke
My birthday was last Wednesday, and on Friday night I went out to dinner with some friends to celebrate. This is actually the end of the story; there's a year or so of backstory to get through until we're at last Friday. I just wanted to start here so I'd remember to say I had a lovely birthday, and if you are reading this and you helped make it lovely, then thank you. So far 27 is a great age to be. It's the cube of an integer whole number! I won't be that again until I'm 27i 64!*
Heather has a cat named Cooper. She got him about a year ago as a diversion from editing the nascent cult classic Zombie Sweater, which, shameless plug, I'm in. Go on and watch it. It's the only film I've been in where I was cast solely based on having hot legs, which is weird because it's not a sexy film or role at all, and weirder still because the only other film I've been in had nothing to do with having hot legs and yet still somehow felt like a porno while we were filming it. I don't know, acting is tricky I guess.
Anyway, Heather got Cooper last April and the two were a match made in heaven. Here's the blog she wrote about him when she first got him. And I know what you're thinking. "Awww, she was so excited that she talked about him like he was people! I can haz poetic license plz?" But you're wrong (and LOLspeak is way passe), that's how they actually are in real life. Heather is a crazy cat lady, but young and hip enough that she makes it awesome somehow. Sometimes I'm jealous of Heather and Cooper. I wish I was a cool cat lady. But then I remember that my cat is awful and fat and tries to trick you into petting her even though you were totally gonna do it anyway.
Fast forward to December, when Heather went back home for Christmas and I was glad she'd be gone for a while, because I still had no idea what to get her. I was also glad to cat-sit for her, because Cooper is super friendly, and sometimes with all of the stresses of the holiday season it's nice to be able to crash on someone else's couch and cuddle with their cat for a while, you know? It was during one such cuddle session that inspiration struck.
At the party we all joked about how far it had gone. What was next, another t-shirt? Something larger, maybe a tote bag? Unfortunately cats hate wearing clothes, so I didn't get any good pictures of Cooper wearing the shirt. I figured this was the end.
And now we're up to last Friday. When we got to the restaurant Heather gave me my birthday present, a small, soft package wrapped in pink tissue paper. I could tell it was something fabric, and for a brief moment I thought about joking that it was a cat t-shirt. But I didn't say anything, because it couldn't be, right? There's no way.
Except that it totally was. Nicely played, Heather.
And so....here's a picture of me wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Heather wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Cooper on it and Cooper wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Heather wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Cooper on it, on it. I think.
The important part is, Heather's birthday is at the end of October, so I have five months to parse that sentence and find an iron-on transfer large enough to accommodate all of the recursive madness. This isn't the end. This is only just beginning, and it won't stop until someone's head explodes.
*Okay, I looked it up and it turns out you don't get i as an answer unless you were cubing i to begin with, and it's not an integer anyway, so none of that up there makes any sense. That's what I get for trying to shoehorn in a math joke. Tune in next week when I talk about how I was so excited to find out that my mutual fund was compounding interest again that I yelled "eeeeeee!" DAMMIT THAT'S EVEN WORSE.
Heather has a cat named Cooper. She got him about a year ago as a diversion from editing the nascent cult classic Zombie Sweater, which, shameless plug, I'm in. Go on and watch it. It's the only film I've been in where I was cast solely based on having hot legs, which is weird because it's not a sexy film or role at all, and weirder still because the only other film I've been in had nothing to do with having hot legs and yet still somehow felt like a porno while we were filming it. I don't know, acting is tricky I guess.
Anyway, Heather got Cooper last April and the two were a match made in heaven. Here's the blog she wrote about him when she first got him. And I know what you're thinking. "Awww, she was so excited that she talked about him like he was people! I can haz poetic license plz?" But you're wrong (and LOLspeak is way passe), that's how they actually are in real life. Heather is a crazy cat lady, but young and hip enough that she makes it awesome somehow. Sometimes I'm jealous of Heather and Cooper. I wish I was a cool cat lady. But then I remember that my cat is awful and fat and tries to trick you into petting her even though you were totally gonna do it anyway.
Fast forward to December, when Heather went back home for Christmas and I was glad she'd be gone for a while, because I still had no idea what to get her. I was also glad to cat-sit for her, because Cooper is super friendly, and sometimes with all of the stresses of the holiday season it's nice to be able to crash on someone else's couch and cuddle with their cat for a while, you know? It was during one such cuddle session that inspiration struck.
Cooper
Plus t-shirt
Plus Photoshop and iron-on paper
Equals the best damn present ever.
Also, I think at this point I may have become Cooper's aunt. I'm not quite sure how that works.
Fast forward again to this April, when Heather threw a party in honor of the first anniversary of Cooper's adoption. I was out with some mutual friends a couple weeks before the event and we were discussing gift ideas. How do you top something like a t-shirt with a picture of a cat on it?
"You could get Cooper a t-shirt with a picture of Heather on it," one friend suggested.
"I could," I said. "Or..."
And then it hit me. A flash of inspiration; that beautiful moment when genius and insanity and "maybe I drank too much beer waiting for the late night happy hour app specials to start" collide. I knew exactly what to make.
"Or...I could get Cooper a t-shirt with a picture of Heather wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Cooper on it, on it."
And that is exactly what I did.
And now we're up to last Friday. When we got to the restaurant Heather gave me my birthday present, a small, soft package wrapped in pink tissue paper. I could tell it was something fabric, and for a brief moment I thought about joking that it was a cat t-shirt. But I didn't say anything, because it couldn't be, right? There's no way.
Except that it totally was. Nicely played, Heather.
And so....here's a picture of me wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Heather wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Cooper on it and Cooper wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Heather wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Cooper on it, on it. I think.
The important part is, Heather's birthday is at the end of October, so I have five months to parse that sentence and find an iron-on transfer large enough to accommodate all of the recursive madness. This isn't the end. This is only just beginning, and it won't stop until someone's head explodes.
*Okay, I looked it up and it turns out you don't get i as an answer unless you were cubing i to begin with, and it's not an integer anyway, so none of that up there makes any sense. That's what I get for trying to shoehorn in a math joke. Tune in next week when I talk about how I was so excited to find out that my mutual fund was compounding interest again that I yelled "eeeeeee!" DAMMIT THAT'S EVEN WORSE.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Late night list
1. It's very late/very early and I am awake. I was asleep at one point, but no longer. I woke up and started thinking about things, you know, the things that seem so important when you're half asleep and you can't stop thinking about them, but once they fully wake you up you realize it could've waited til morning, because what are you going to do at 2AM anyway? Write an email? The recipient will see the timestamp and think you're weird (note: please do not read the timestamp on this blog).
2. I cleaned my entire bathroom after Zumba class today, both rooms, and it was pretty gross because it's got dormered walls and I don't normally clean the parts I can't stand up straight in. Did you know that in the humidity of a bathroom, dirt becomes mud? And the dirt-mud all has hair in it so it forms this sort of caked-on matrix that sticks to every surface and doesn't wash off of your mop and rag. Anyway, that's my bathroom, gross and unclean, or at least it was until earlier tonight.
3. I have to go to work tomorrow, then the gym (Fitness Yoga? Do I have the balls? WE SHALL SEE.) then this show because I hate interactive theater only slightly less than getting ashes put on my forehead, especially with bangs (the bangs affect only the ashes, not the theater. That was a poorly worded sentence). Why am I awake? See #1; and also, I don't want to jump to conclusions or anything but I started taking Adderall today. That might have influenced #2 as well. I don't know; I also had a big mocha at lunch. Right now I'm choosing to focus on how badass it is to have a bottle labeled "AMPHETAMINE 5MG" in my purse. Even though I know it's not badass at all, not even for me (I used to take Dexatrim all the time in high school, which was insane, because I weighted like 130 pounds and even back then people knew how dangerous ephedrine was. How am I still alive, right?).
4. Anyway, I'm obviously still rambling, and last night I was going to split an apple with Ryan and on my way into his bedroom got sidetracked for 15 minutes putting my laundry away, and I'm fighting with every fiber of my being the impulse to make a Charlie Sheen joke right now. So based on all of that I'm starting do doubt the efficacy of Adderall, unless the goal is to keep you awake long enough to get more shit done. Not sure how that would help with forgetfulness, but I'm no doctor. Oh, speaking of doctors, the psychiatrist I saw kept asking me the same questions over and over again, and I'm pretty sure it was because he was making sure I wasn't lying about having ADD (because Adderall's a controlled substance and commonly abused I KNOW BADASS RIGHT?), but it's a little unsettling to be seeing a doctor who seems more forgetful than you are.
5. Damn, prescriptions are expensive. This is a fact you do not appreciate until you have a $3000 deductible.
6. Maybe if I ate something I'd fall asleep? I didn't have dinner (which is what reminded me about the Dexatrim, random I guess) so it would be that too-empty stomach situation so I might get a belly ache. Also, I'd have to brush my teeth and I would like my sink to stay clean for at least eight hours.
7. I need to make the chicken in the fridge. I could stick it in the crock pot, but (see #3) I won't be home until very late tomorrow, which is actually today.
8. I could go shovel the snow that's still coming down, but my boots are in my car which is on the wrong side of the snow from my bed; also, I am not wearing pants.
9. Winning, duh! Damnit, Beck...
10. Nutella. Got some at Target yesterday while I was waiting for my prescription. Nutella, then lying quietly for...three hours, really?...until I have to go to work. Done.
Good night, sort of. I hope.
(Bonus #11: Have you ever tried to proofread something you wrote at 3AM? Yikes. And I'm probably not catching all of the errors. I apologize in advance, although by the time you read this, it will actually be too late.)
2. I cleaned my entire bathroom after Zumba class today, both rooms, and it was pretty gross because it's got dormered walls and I don't normally clean the parts I can't stand up straight in. Did you know that in the humidity of a bathroom, dirt becomes mud? And the dirt-mud all has hair in it so it forms this sort of caked-on matrix that sticks to every surface and doesn't wash off of your mop and rag. Anyway, that's my bathroom, gross and unclean, or at least it was until earlier tonight.
3. I have to go to work tomorrow, then the gym (Fitness Yoga? Do I have the balls? WE SHALL SEE.) then this show because I hate interactive theater only slightly less than getting ashes put on my forehead, especially with bangs (the bangs affect only the ashes, not the theater. That was a poorly worded sentence). Why am I awake? See #1; and also, I don't want to jump to conclusions or anything but I started taking Adderall today. That might have influenced #2 as well. I don't know; I also had a big mocha at lunch. Right now I'm choosing to focus on how badass it is to have a bottle labeled "AMPHETAMINE 5MG" in my purse. Even though I know it's not badass at all, not even for me (I used to take Dexatrim all the time in high school, which was insane, because I weighted like 130 pounds and even back then people knew how dangerous ephedrine was. How am I still alive, right?).
4. Anyway, I'm obviously still rambling, and last night I was going to split an apple with Ryan and on my way into his bedroom got sidetracked for 15 minutes putting my laundry away, and I'm fighting with every fiber of my being the impulse to make a Charlie Sheen joke right now. So based on all of that I'm starting do doubt the efficacy of Adderall, unless the goal is to keep you awake long enough to get more shit done. Not sure how that would help with forgetfulness, but I'm no doctor. Oh, speaking of doctors, the psychiatrist I saw kept asking me the same questions over and over again, and I'm pretty sure it was because he was making sure I wasn't lying about having ADD (because Adderall's a controlled substance and commonly abused I KNOW BADASS RIGHT?), but it's a little unsettling to be seeing a doctor who seems more forgetful than you are.
5. Damn, prescriptions are expensive. This is a fact you do not appreciate until you have a $3000 deductible.
6. Maybe if I ate something I'd fall asleep? I didn't have dinner (which is what reminded me about the Dexatrim, random I guess) so it would be that too-empty stomach situation so I might get a belly ache. Also, I'd have to brush my teeth and I would like my sink to stay clean for at least eight hours.
7. I need to make the chicken in the fridge. I could stick it in the crock pot, but (see #3) I won't be home until very late tomorrow, which is actually today.
8. I could go shovel the snow that's still coming down, but my boots are in my car which is on the wrong side of the snow from my bed; also, I am not wearing pants.
9. Winning, duh! Damnit, Beck...
10. Nutella. Got some at Target yesterday while I was waiting for my prescription. Nutella, then lying quietly for...three hours, really?...until I have to go to work. Done.
Good night, sort of. I hope.
(Bonus #11: Have you ever tried to proofread something you wrote at 3AM? Yikes. And I'm probably not catching all of the errors. I apologize in advance, although by the time you read this, it will actually be too late.)
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Shaping up, Part 3
This is my last in this ad hoc series, because I don't want to become one of those people who constantly talk about their fitness regimen. It's really not that interesting, because I think on some level everyone is doing the same thing, or at least feeling really bad that they're not. So who am I to get in people's faces all the time and be like "Oh my god you guys, I just did so many squats, my glutes are solid FEEL THEM!"
(Side note: This recently happened to me. A friend invited me to feel his pecs. Awkward. It's not that I have anything against a congratulatory fondle, but it didn't seem like the appropriate thing to do in the middle of a crowded bar. Also, this may just be my weird sense of fairness, but I think touching someone's chest is an implied agreement that they get to touch yours.)
(Second-level side note, regarding the frequency of side notes as of late: I am finally going to see a psychiatrist about getting some Adderall. I have to wait over a month to see a doctor who's willing to prescribe a Schedule II drug, but...I don't know, something about gun control laws, probably. And outrage.)
And anyway, I haven't lost any weight yet. But something must be working, because I am hungry ALL THE TIME now. So maybe I'm growing muscle and I just need to ride this out for a couple weeks until my metabolism figures out what's going on. Still got chunky thighs, though, so I'll continue to soldier on.
They say (and by "they," I mean the health and wellness websites I read on my extremely-limited internet access at work) that a good exercise program should include aerobic, strength, and flexibility training. And I'm getting pretty good at the first two, but I've been putting off the last one, because I'm terrible at it.
Secret shame: I can't touch my toes. I've never been able to. It's why I never got a Presidential Fitness award in grade school (well, that and I couldn't be bothered to run for an entire mile). I've always blamed it on the fact that I have really long legs and a short torso, but I'm pretty sure that claim doesn't stand up to actual math, because my arms are long too. I'm just not flexible. At all. And it's really embarrassing, because who can't touch their toes? Everyone can, right? So I don't like to stretch at the gym because I don't want people to see that I can only get to about mid-calf without the fear of snapping some tendons, and not stretching makes me even less flexible, and it's a vicious cycle.
(There, now, that's all of my secrets. I'm an inflexible, weak girl with no sense of rhythm and flabby thighs. What do you say, fellas?)
Needless to say I am not ready to take a yoga class at the gym, but I do have a DVD. A DVD that I got a while back but haven't done yet, because of the shame. But now is as good a time as any to start, I figured, so tonight after dinner I loaded up the disc drive on the lapbook, cleared a Naomi-sized space on my bedroom floor, and did some yoga.
I'm not going to talk too much about the experience itself, because there are people far more interesting than me already doing that (and I use the word "people" loosely there), but here are a few observations:
Also: Hey, the blog looks different now! That's pretty cool, right? Looks like someone learned how to copy and paste two or three CSS codes!
(Side note: This recently happened to me. A friend invited me to feel his pecs. Awkward. It's not that I have anything against a congratulatory fondle, but it didn't seem like the appropriate thing to do in the middle of a crowded bar. Also, this may just be my weird sense of fairness, but I think touching someone's chest is an implied agreement that they get to touch yours.)
(Second-level side note, regarding the frequency of side notes as of late: I am finally going to see a psychiatrist about getting some Adderall. I have to wait over a month to see a doctor who's willing to prescribe a Schedule II drug, but...I don't know, something about gun control laws, probably. And outrage.)
And anyway, I haven't lost any weight yet. But something must be working, because I am hungry ALL THE TIME now. So maybe I'm growing muscle and I just need to ride this out for a couple weeks until my metabolism figures out what's going on. Still got chunky thighs, though, so I'll continue to soldier on.
They say (and by "they," I mean the health and wellness websites I read on my extremely-limited internet access at work) that a good exercise program should include aerobic, strength, and flexibility training. And I'm getting pretty good at the first two, but I've been putting off the last one, because I'm terrible at it.
Secret shame: I can't touch my toes. I've never been able to. It's why I never got a Presidential Fitness award in grade school (well, that and I couldn't be bothered to run for an entire mile). I've always blamed it on the fact that I have really long legs and a short torso, but I'm pretty sure that claim doesn't stand up to actual math, because my arms are long too. I'm just not flexible. At all. And it's really embarrassing, because who can't touch their toes? Everyone can, right? So I don't like to stretch at the gym because I don't want people to see that I can only get to about mid-calf without the fear of snapping some tendons, and not stretching makes me even less flexible, and it's a vicious cycle.
(There, now, that's all of my secrets. I'm an inflexible, weak girl with no sense of rhythm and flabby thighs. What do you say, fellas?)
Needless to say I am not ready to take a yoga class at the gym, but I do have a DVD. A DVD that I got a while back but haven't done yet, because of the shame. But now is as good a time as any to start, I figured, so tonight after dinner I loaded up the disc drive on the lapbook, cleared a Naomi-sized space on my bedroom floor, and did some yoga.
I'm not going to talk too much about the experience itself, because there are people far more interesting than me already doing that (and I use the word "people" loosely there), but here are a few observations:
- Either doing yoga makes me dizzy, or doing yoga immediately after eating a hot dog makes me dizzy.
- Controlling your breathing is harder than I thought it would be. I can do the "in for four, out for six" sort of thing, but coordinating it with a movement takes some practice. This may be the source of the dizziness.
- For a practice that is supposed to be relaxing, there sure is a lot to think about when you're doing yoga. Inhale into the pose! Exhale to your fingertips! Keep your shoulders open! Something about chakras!
- I'm not very good at visualization. At the end when you have to relax in the corpse pose (creepy name, by the way), I really had to work at it. Lower back, relax now! Butt, now it is your turn to relax! Shoulders, what the hell, you were supposed to relax three body parts ago DO NOT MAKE ME COME BACK THERE! Again, not very calming. I guess part of the purpose of yoga is to get better at keeping your mind calm. But then again, there are medications for that, and I'm pretty sure they don't involve bending at the waist.
- I didn't feel tired, or like any of my muscles were fatigued, at the end of the workout, so I'm interested to see if I'm sore at all tomorrow morning.
- I'm still feeling dizzy and a bit nauseous, and it's been like half an hour. If this turns me off from hot dogs I am gonna be pissed.
Also: Hey, the blog looks different now! That's pretty cool, right? Looks like someone learned how to copy and paste two or three CSS codes!
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Shaping up, Part 2
A minor correction to part 1: I said I wasn't doing this for my health, but the more I think about it, I kind of am. According to my therapist exercise is a good way to manage ADHD without medicine. I'm not hyperactive, so I don't need to exercise to burn off steam, but I do have really poor impulse control, especially when it comes to ridiculous, moderately skanky clothing (e.g., "OMG sequined hotpants ON SALE!!!") So really, the least I can do is make sure I look decent enough to actually wear the things I buy.
I'm not putting too much effort into my diet yet (I'm eating girl scout cookies as I type this), but I have started going to the fitness classes at my gym. And I have to say, the YMCA, God bless it, is the best place to start working out if you have no idea what you're doing. Fact: I am no good at moving. I may be a musician, and I may have curves, but when I move there is zero sense of rhythm and negative grace. I have done the occasional step aerobics class, and some basic choreography in high school productions, but that is about it. But at the Y, that doesn't matter! Come as you are! We'll help you get fit, and we'll watch your kids while you do it! Heck, we'll even get your kids fit! Our prices our reasonable, our classes are user-friendly, and you won't feel ashamed to take your clothes off in the locker room because everyone looks the same as you or worse!
Even so, I was nervous about going to a class that would require a lot of coordination, so I started out last Saturday with Bodypump, an awesome class where you and a bunch of old ladies and moms do strength training moves, like lunges and chest presses, to music. Squats are a little unnerving when you already feel bad about your butt, but by the next day I could feel that every single muscle group we worked was sore. This is a great class: no complicated moves, no beautiful people who are better than you, lots of fun and immediate payoff. I went again today and I did more weight this time (two kilograms more, but it's a low weight/high rep thing, so I felt good about it.)
Then on Tuesday night, high off the successes of Bodypump, Ryan and I went to a Zumba class. Oh, Zumba. How can I begin to describe this? On Facebook I called it Jazzercise plus ethnic music minus leotards, and I think that may be all you need to know. Here's a video:
Now imagine what you just saw with the type of people who work out at the Y (the aforementioned moms and old ladies). Also, we were all Minnesotan, so there was no yelling, just some polite clapping at the end of each song (none from the Lutherans, I'm sure).
I had watched a few of these videos before class so I had some idea of what to expect; however, I was not prepared to walk into the fitness studio and see it completely dark except for a few strings of Christmas tree lights and one of those spinning colored light things. Because Zumba is a party, y'all! Except that with the few people standing around, waiting for class to start and making small talk, it looked more like a junior high dance (were those good exercise? I remember being sweaty and smelly but I think that was from being surrounded by equally sweaty and smelly teens. There was also the unknown, uncomfortable feeling in the lower abdomen from dancing too close to boys. I'm sure I burned a few calories praying about that.)
Once the class started, though, I realized the reason for the dim lighting. You can't see anything, including yourself. So, for example, while on some level I knew I looked like a Barrel of Monkeys character (a monkey, not the barrel) while we were doing snake arms to the Indian song, I couldn't see it, so it didn't matter as much. And that helped a lot. I was actually enjoying myself - still struggling, and a bit out of breath and confused, but for the most part having fun.
And then, about halfway through the song, something awesome happened. Proud Mary. Quite possibly the greatest song choreography of all time, and we danced to it. And from that moment on, I FRIGGIN' LOVED ZUMBA.
Here's another video. This time, imagine it with the moms, the old ladies, and me, with a big stupid grin on my face.
(Another semi-related story: The circles I ran in during college were such that I ended up at a lot of gay parties. One such party was at the apartment of a recent graduate who was a well-respected member of the drag scene which Ames, Iowa for some reason had. Late into the night, when I was too drunk to fully appreciate it, Proud Mary started playing and the host, apropos of nothing, got up and started doing his routine to it. He wasn't in drag, and he was probably just as drunk as I was, but his lip syncing and dancing were flawless. And when you see a large, drunk, gay man give a performance like that, one that Tina Turner herself would have been proud of, man, that's something that sticks with you forever.)
I went back to Zumba on Thursday and it wasn't quite as good as the first time, probably due to the fact that I was standing near a lamp so I could sort of see myself in the mirrors. But I think now that I've gone twice I know most of the steps, so I can start working on swinging my hips a little more. That should help with the awkwardness. And most importantly, now in addition to my short-term goal (get in shape for swimsuit season), I have a long-term goal: Get me a pair of Tina Turner legs.
Because I will buy a pair of sequined hot pants; it's only a matter of time. And I will most likely wear them somewhere inappropriate (a dive bar? a friend's theater production? church?). But if I can stick with this workout plan, at least I know I'll look good. Psychotherapy: It works, people. I am proof.
I'm not putting too much effort into my diet yet (I'm eating girl scout cookies as I type this), but I have started going to the fitness classes at my gym. And I have to say, the YMCA, God bless it, is the best place to start working out if you have no idea what you're doing. Fact: I am no good at moving. I may be a musician, and I may have curves, but when I move there is zero sense of rhythm and negative grace. I have done the occasional step aerobics class, and some basic choreography in high school productions, but that is about it. But at the Y, that doesn't matter! Come as you are! We'll help you get fit, and we'll watch your kids while you do it! Heck, we'll even get your kids fit! Our prices our reasonable, our classes are user-friendly, and you won't feel ashamed to take your clothes off in the locker room because everyone looks the same as you or worse!
Even so, I was nervous about going to a class that would require a lot of coordination, so I started out last Saturday with Bodypump, an awesome class where you and a bunch of old ladies and moms do strength training moves, like lunges and chest presses, to music. Squats are a little unnerving when you already feel bad about your butt, but by the next day I could feel that every single muscle group we worked was sore. This is a great class: no complicated moves, no beautiful people who are better than you, lots of fun and immediate payoff. I went again today and I did more weight this time (two kilograms more, but it's a low weight/high rep thing, so I felt good about it.)
Then on Tuesday night, high off the successes of Bodypump, Ryan and I went to a Zumba class. Oh, Zumba. How can I begin to describe this? On Facebook I called it Jazzercise plus ethnic music minus leotards, and I think that may be all you need to know. Here's a video:
Now imagine what you just saw with the type of people who work out at the Y (the aforementioned moms and old ladies). Also, we were all Minnesotan, so there was no yelling, just some polite clapping at the end of each song (none from the Lutherans, I'm sure).
I had watched a few of these videos before class so I had some idea of what to expect; however, I was not prepared to walk into the fitness studio and see it completely dark except for a few strings of Christmas tree lights and one of those spinning colored light things. Because Zumba is a party, y'all! Except that with the few people standing around, waiting for class to start and making small talk, it looked more like a junior high dance (were those good exercise? I remember being sweaty and smelly but I think that was from being surrounded by equally sweaty and smelly teens. There was also the unknown, uncomfortable feeling in the lower abdomen from dancing too close to boys. I'm sure I burned a few calories praying about that.)
Once the class started, though, I realized the reason for the dim lighting. You can't see anything, including yourself. So, for example, while on some level I knew I looked like a Barrel of Monkeys character (a monkey, not the barrel) while we were doing snake arms to the Indian song, I couldn't see it, so it didn't matter as much. And that helped a lot. I was actually enjoying myself - still struggling, and a bit out of breath and confused, but for the most part having fun.
And then, about halfway through the song, something awesome happened. Proud Mary. Quite possibly the greatest song choreography of all time, and we danced to it. And from that moment on, I FRIGGIN' LOVED ZUMBA.
Here's another video. This time, imagine it with the moms, the old ladies, and me, with a big stupid grin on my face.
(Another semi-related story: The circles I ran in during college were such that I ended up at a lot of gay parties. One such party was at the apartment of a recent graduate who was a well-respected member of the drag scene which Ames, Iowa for some reason had. Late into the night, when I was too drunk to fully appreciate it, Proud Mary started playing and the host, apropos of nothing, got up and started doing his routine to it. He wasn't in drag, and he was probably just as drunk as I was, but his lip syncing and dancing were flawless. And when you see a large, drunk, gay man give a performance like that, one that Tina Turner herself would have been proud of, man, that's something that sticks with you forever.)
I went back to Zumba on Thursday and it wasn't quite as good as the first time, probably due to the fact that I was standing near a lamp so I could sort of see myself in the mirrors. But I think now that I've gone twice I know most of the steps, so I can start working on swinging my hips a little more. That should help with the awkwardness. And most importantly, now in addition to my short-term goal (get in shape for swimsuit season), I have a long-term goal: Get me a pair of Tina Turner legs.
Because I will buy a pair of sequined hot pants; it's only a matter of time. And I will most likely wear them somewhere inappropriate (a dive bar? a friend's theater production? church?). But if I can stick with this workout plan, at least I know I'll look good. Psychotherapy: It works, people. I am proof.
Shaping up, Part 1
Here's what's been happening. At the beginning of February, I went to Fort Myers, Florida with my mom. It was awesome. I almost never go on trips in the winter so I forgot the novelty of stepping off of a plane into weather that's 80 degrees warmer than when you stepped on, not to mention several orders of magnitude more humid. Florida is awesome in February.
(Quick semi-related story about this: I went to college in Iowa, and when it was time to go back after a break my mom would drive me down. We'd leave in the morning around 8 AM, drive straight through, and arrive right before noon. WITHOUT FAIL every single time we did this my mom would remark on how much warmer it was in Ames than in Bloomington, because, in her words, "it's in a whole different planting zone." Not because we were four hours into the day. Not because the sun wasn't up when we left. Not even because Ames is 200 miles closer to the equator than Bloomington. Planting zones. I thought about asking Mom how many planting zones Florida was away from home but really, why open that can of worms again?)
My goal was to spend as much of my time there in my bikini and I think I did pretty well. (Maybe too well, once you stop and realize you're essentially wearing the same spandex-y pair of underwear for five days straight. Whatever; I rinsed them out.) We went to the beach twice, kayaking once, and on a whole bunch of nature hikes (or as we call them in my family, "death marches." Guys, listen to me: Do not go on vacation with my mom) and if you've seen my pictures of the trip there I was in my swimsuit the whole time. As someone who hates pants and probably doesn't get enough Vitamin D, I'd say this trip was a huge success.
But here's the thing: Once you get back from vacation and you've had a couple weeks to distance yourself from the experience, you start to notice things. For example, I noticed that my swimsuit doesn't cover as much of my butt as it used to. And while I'd like to blame that on the repeated washings on the trip, I'm pretty sure that spandex doesn't shrink. So that means I've either got some fabric that's displaying properties it's never been known to have, or I put on some weight, and I'm guessing it's the latter, because fuck you, Occam. Fuck you so much.
Now, I know that I am not overweight by any stretch. I weigh about 15 pounds more now than I did in college, and in college I was borderline underweight. I don't want to go back to that; I have boobs now, and that's pretty cool. But things are starting to expand, and I don't have the best habits (my idea of eating healthy is "maybe if you're going to have nachos for dinner again you should eat a piece of fruit, too). So now, faced with the prospect of a whole season of bikini-wearing; now, when I can make this a purely vanity-based project and not have to think too hard about my actual health, I have decided to start exercising more.
And now it's on the internet, so I have to stick with it. Otherwise I'll be no better than a politician, and I don't think I could live with that shame.
Okay, I just got back from the gym and I've sat here for too long without taking a shower. Stay tuned for part 2, in which I recount my first experience with Zumba (spoiler alert: It was awkward).
(Quick semi-related story about this: I went to college in Iowa, and when it was time to go back after a break my mom would drive me down. We'd leave in the morning around 8 AM, drive straight through, and arrive right before noon. WITHOUT FAIL every single time we did this my mom would remark on how much warmer it was in Ames than in Bloomington, because, in her words, "it's in a whole different planting zone." Not because we were four hours into the day. Not because the sun wasn't up when we left. Not even because Ames is 200 miles closer to the equator than Bloomington. Planting zones. I thought about asking Mom how many planting zones Florida was away from home but really, why open that can of worms again?)
My goal was to spend as much of my time there in my bikini and I think I did pretty well. (Maybe too well, once you stop and realize you're essentially wearing the same spandex-y pair of underwear for five days straight. Whatever; I rinsed them out.) We went to the beach twice, kayaking once, and on a whole bunch of nature hikes (or as we call them in my family, "death marches." Guys, listen to me: Do not go on vacation with my mom) and if you've seen my pictures of the trip there I was in my swimsuit the whole time. As someone who hates pants and probably doesn't get enough Vitamin D, I'd say this trip was a huge success.
But here's the thing: Once you get back from vacation and you've had a couple weeks to distance yourself from the experience, you start to notice things. For example, I noticed that my swimsuit doesn't cover as much of my butt as it used to. And while I'd like to blame that on the repeated washings on the trip, I'm pretty sure that spandex doesn't shrink. So that means I've either got some fabric that's displaying properties it's never been known to have, or I put on some weight, and I'm guessing it's the latter, because fuck you, Occam. Fuck you so much.
 |
| Fact: Asses should not have double chins. |
Now, I know that I am not overweight by any stretch. I weigh about 15 pounds more now than I did in college, and in college I was borderline underweight. I don't want to go back to that; I have boobs now, and that's pretty cool. But things are starting to expand, and I don't have the best habits (my idea of eating healthy is "maybe if you're going to have nachos for dinner again you should eat a piece of fruit, too). So now, faced with the prospect of a whole season of bikini-wearing; now, when I can make this a purely vanity-based project and not have to think too hard about my actual health, I have decided to start exercising more.
And now it's on the internet, so I have to stick with it. Otherwise I'll be no better than a politician, and I don't think I could live with that shame.
Okay, I just got back from the gym and I've sat here for too long without taking a shower. Stay tuned for part 2, in which I recount my first experience with Zumba (spoiler alert: It was awkward).
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Sort of?
I did not make resolutions this year, because I figure I sort of screwed myself over by starting therapy the month before the new year started. What am I supposed to do to top that level of self-improvement? At any rate, this has led to a lot of minor, half-joking, situational resolutions. A short list:
This year, I have resolved to:
This year, I have resolved to:
- make Limoncello, in honor of this tweet, and in honor of fruit-flavored alcohol being delicious.
- wear tall socks with heels, because if ever there was an absurd fashion trend for me to follow, this is it.
- take swimming lessons, because as I have mentioned before I can't swim. And, sidenote, this whole idea of black people not being able to swim, which I always assumed was some racist bullshit that slave owners used to say and it somehow stuck around, is actually a real and well-documented cultural phenomenon. And I guess it's true in my own experience, it was always my mom who took us swimming, Dad never even got in the water. Who knew?
- Spend less money on clothing, because I went through 12 months' worth of bank statements last week and apparently that's what I spent the most money on. I was kind of hoping it would be fast food, because that would be easy to cut out.
- Joint resolution with Heather: Be sexy with each other, but not with each other (there is a suggestive eyebrow raise and raised inflection in that italicized text, by the way). I don't think there was any specific reason for this resolution other than we bought Groupons for the gym that has stripper pole fitness classes and we need to use them before they expire.
- Apply for the Fringe Festival again. This one is not so much a resolution as an acceptance of the inevitable. The misguided, hilarious, half-written inevitable.
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