Congratulations to P@, who won the September contest!
Archive for September, 2008
Seriously, people. That’s all I’ve got right now. No real updates in forever, but I can’t muster anything else. And do you know why? Because the fall TV season has begun, and I am hopelessly obsessed. I can’t even stop watching the bad shows. (Heroes, you are dangerously close to falling into that category.)
So here’s September’s contest info. Allison of Allison Wonderland is partnering with me to give away three of her homemade jar candles. She also makes wonderful bath salts; contact her if you’re interested in purchasing an item.
To qualify for the contest you don’t have to do anything except comment below. The contest closes at 11:59 p.m. on Saturday, September 27. The winner, who will be selected using a random number generator, will receive the aforementioned candle from the linked page from Allison. Everyone who comments is eligible to win, including people I know in real life.
About two weeks ago I realized I have muscle definition in my arms. I can actually see my biceps! Ever since I’ve spent at least a few minutes a day flexing in front of the mirror like a twelve-year-old boy. Last night I discovered I have definition in my triceps, too. So today I showed Aunt Doodie my awesome emerging muscles.
“Wow!” she said. “Pretty soon you’re going to be He-Man!”
“Or She-Ra. Because, you know, I’m a girl,” I said.
“Umm, I said ‘Wee Man,’” Aunt Doodie said.
“Fuck you!” I yelled.
“What?!? He’s all muscled up!”
She better pray I never find a Sword of Protection.
This whole Palin-hockey-mom-pitbull-lipstick-pig thing is just ridiculous.
Unless you hang out in Aunt Doodie’s grooming shop.
You see, when a dog is excited/nervous/terrified during the grooming process, he will sometimes, um, well, unsheathe his penis. But you can’t very well run around a business yelling, “Put your dick up!” all the time, so we refer to the unsheathed penis as “lipstick” because of its shape and color. Which means that in Cabot, Arkansas, you can, in point of fact, find both hockey moms and pitbulls with “lipstick.”
But since Obama’s community organizing experience never brought him to this part of the country, I’m fairly certain he didn’t know about that.
After reading Katherine’s comment and doing a quick Google search, I realized that referring to dog dicks as “lipsticks” is actually quite common and not unique to Aunt Doodie’s line of work. (I’m slow on the uptake with these things, as I generally dislike dogs and avoid them at all costs — unless it means that Aunt Doodie will pay my rent.) So I guess it’s likely that Obama did know about that. But I think it’s even more likely that all these people who are up in arms about Obama’s “lipstick on a pig” comment have certainly heard that phrase before and undoubtedly knew what it meant as well as what it didn’t mean. Or is that another one of those things we say only in the South?
The following excerpt from Chelsea Handler’s opening monologue on a recent episode of her awesome show left me speechless (Although that might have been because my mouth was stuffed with the cannoli I was inhaling at the time.) and wondering if she and I were a set of creepy separated-at-birth twins*, a la Danny and Arnold in that shitty movie we all want to forget:
Chelsea: “Anyone who knows me knows I love a big breakfast buffet. And, luckily for me, Chuy’s** full-grown cousin Paco owns an establishment called ‘Big Breakfast Buffets and Cigarettes.’ We went this past Saturday, and we went off.”
And that, dear readers, is pretty much my life. Or my ideal life. You know: the one where I subsist on breakfast buffets and cigarettes instead of whole grains, raw vegetables, lean meats, yoga, cardio, and cigarettes — and still look stunning. But then Ms. Handler turned out this gem:
Chelsea: “The only way to burn off eighteen jalapeno-Jack-cheese-stuffed cilantro waffles is to get back in bed and settle in to watch Oxygen’s Tori and Dean 44-hour marathon. In the eleventh hour, I had a big revelation. It was my big ‘a-ha!’ moment when I realized I, Chelsea Lately [or, uh, Bradi Last Season], kind of like Tori Spelling.”
And I do like Tori Spelling. Of course, I have the luxury (Or is that mercy?) of having seen maybe 10 episodes of the original 90210 rather than all 292. (Jesus. 292? And Firefly aired only eleven episodes? The mind fucking boggles.) So I don’t really know much about BH, 90210, except that I would be Andrea Zuckerman on every single “Which Character Are You?!?!?!? LOL!!!!!!!” quiz ever created. I don’t know why I didn’t watch; I probably had high school jazz band practice on that night or something.
I do remember Ms. Spelling from Saved By the Bell, where she played a nerdy chick with a beautiful voice who stole Screech’s heart with her siren song in glee club. (I totally kicked ass at the SBtB board game. In college. Kiss my ass, mother fuckers! Everybody has to be good at something!) And I decided then and there that Ms. Spelling was kind of awesome.
*FYI: If Chelsea and I were a set of creepy separated-at-birth identical twins, we would be 5’4″, 120 pounds, married and quickly divorced with a couple of kids, and (still) drinking shitloads of hard liquor. So we’d pretty much be Britney. And the last thing this world needs is three of those, so thank goodness we’re not.
**Handler’s dwarf sidekick; that is, her Ed McMahon. Although the term “sidekick” seems really inappropriate here, but I can’t come up with anything better.
Alternate Post Title: “Why My Yoga Instructor Hates Me”
I love my yoga class. I love it so much that I go even if I just ate a giant bowl of black beans and brown rice and will produce so much gas that I could power a small third-world country throughout the hour-long session. I love it so much that I’ll go even if my arms already ache tremendously from lifting fat-ass dogs all morning. I love it so much that I pay the extra sawbuck so I can go to all the classes rather than just the one for which I’m registered — even though I’m unemployed and can’t really afford it.
And I need my yoga class. I knew that already, though, because I’ve seen my strength and flexibility increase dramatically over the last four months. I’ve experienced the joy of sleeping straight through the night like a normal person. I’ve felt better about my physical self and finally garnered the gumption to get off my ass to slowly sculpt my 5K Ass.
But my need of my yoga class became especially apparent in the last couple of weeks, because my instructor has begun to reference my Type-A personality in class. And there is, of course, no arguing with that assessment. I am a Type-A personality; my harried visage is probably on a Type-A motivational (or de-motivational, as it were) poster somewhere.
But there’s been a real emphasis in my yoga training on not being in competition with your classmates, and I’ve taken it to heart. My only defense is that I want to be the best “me” I can, rather than the best in the class. So I’ve channeled my competitive nature into being in competition with myself. I will not rest until I can do every single pose with the “good” burn rather than the searing pain.* I won’t stop pushing myself until I can breathe properly rather than whimper when I’m doing any of the poses that engage my stomach muscles. And while I won’t do anything that hurts me, I’ll be damned if I quit working my ass off before I master the monkey pose. We’re not even up to that point in class yet, but it’s my goal, dammit!
That said, I guess my weird-ass personality can be a bit disconcerting. I vacillate between not speaking at all and bitching rather vocally (or grimacing visibly) about the poses I hate. (I’m thinking of you, anything-involving-my-non-existent-ab-muscle poses.) And I sometimes accidentally-on purpose turn my yoga class into my own personal comedy store, wherein I try out my new material. (I miss teaching in that respect. Teenagers are always a good audience.)
So I’m sort of dreading tomorrow’s yoga class, since this is the email I just sent my yoga instructor:
“My yoga clothes don’t have pockets, so I tucked a couple of aspirin in my sports bra before leaving the house tonight. (I’m all the time losing stuff in there. It’s like a black hole. One time I found Stephen Hawking nosing around under my areola with a telescope and geiger counter.) My intention was to take the aspirin on the way, but then I forgot all about it. When I got undressed at home I could find only one aspirin, which was sort of dissolved around the edges by my boob sweat. I don’t remember doing any inversions tonight in class, so I probably lost it when I was standing on my head in the smell-good aisle at Walgreens afterwards. (I’m kidding! Probably. I don’t remember doing any inversions at Walgreens, either.) But you might want to do a visual scan of the carpet before class tomorrow in case the place is littered with acetaminophen.”
*I have never actually had a searing pain in yoga class, because I’ll push myself just to that point without actually going there. But I have had the strange experience of my ears “stopping up” — like when you drive into the hills or are on an airplane — in inversion poses so that I have to equalize the pressure. That was kind of weird.
Note that my yoga studio is called Yoga You. Hence, my Category descriptor of “Yogi Me at Yoga You.”