On another note, this is hilarious — go through the recipe slideshow.
Archive for May, 2004
So . . . I made a career of partying last night. I’m only happy to say that it wasn’t nearly as wild as last Thursday.
Toward the latter half of my evening (after knocking back a few), I ran into a guy who has dated two of my friends, but always looks at me as though he’s never seen me before. He continues to introduce himself to me and give me his card — although I don’t really know what he wants me to do with it.
I might have a slight bias against him, just because I know my friends’ history with him, and I can’t say that I really like his vibe. This was exacerbated by the fact that, after he finally recognized me, he persisted in calling me “G-Spot,” which isn’t a terrible thing, per se, but awfully hard to explain in company that doesn’t know about my column.
Then he asked me why I’m qualified to be an advice columnist. I asked him he’d actually read the column, and as it turns out one of my friends forwarded him a link to a column that was apparently pertinent to their situation. He might not have appreciated the message. Anyhoo, I explained that I’m NOT an advice columnist (which one should know if one has even read one installment of my little rag). And I embellished, as I’m known to do, that I’m far from a relationship expert (clearly). I’m obviously an expert at being single, but I happen to be observant, analytical, and verbose.
I think he was sorry that he brought it up, as was I.
Worked out this morning again. I’m exhausted already and it’s going to be a loooooooong day. This had better pay off, dammit!
Whining aside, I went back to the branch of my gym that I visit least frequently, and worked out in the vicinity of the man-wannabee trainer that I blogged about last week. Since that post, I hoped that maybe she had a cold, which could have altered the tone of her voice. I know that when I have a cold, my voice is a few octaves lower, so I was trying to extend her the same consideration. And now I’ve decided that it was a waste of consideration. In fact, her voice might’ve been deeper this morning than it was the last time. Scary.
The thing that’s been making me laugh lately is vegetarianism. I go on this rant a lot, and I wrote an entire sketch about this at Second City, so pardon my possibly redundancy, but I can’t help it, in this case. Now . . . before all of the vegetarians jump down my throat (I’m sure there’s a pun there somewhere), if you’re a true vegetarian, meaning you subsist on vegetables, it’s a wonderful thing. What I think is hilarious is that a lot of people purport to be vegetarians, but their diet largely consists of artificial meat products, like Fakin’ Bacon, etc., or other things that aren’t found in nature. I think this defeats the point of vegetarianism.
When I voice my opinion, they all firmly assert: “It’s SOY!! It’s so good for you.” They say this as though they’re giving me some sort of nutritional education. So I retort, “Soy’s a bean! Since when can you take a bean and turn it into a fake pork chop?” It doesn’t make any sense, and I don’t trust this entire soy phenomenon. It takes on too many forms and shapes, and it can’t possibly be natural.
I eat poultry and seafood, but at least my food has accountability. If I’m eating a chicken leg, somewhere there’s a chicken missing a leg that can account for my meal. If I’m eating a salmon filet, I know that a salmon farm is missing a not-so-strong swimmer. However, anyone who eats a Tofurkey (a horribly disgusting ‘turkey’ made of some sort of tofu product) has no idea where the food came from. I’m not even convinced it’s real food.
If I want soy, I’ll eat edamame. At least that way I know what it is.
This is the week of realization, apparently. I’ve come to the realization that the sign that I’m not writing enough is that I spend WAY too much time in bookstores. It’s like I’m looking for something that I can’t define, and therefore can never find. When I think about it, I realize it’s because I need to write what I’m looking for. Make sense? I didn’t think so. It will probably only make sense to me, but I thought I’d throw it out there.
On another note, I have no passion around American Idol. I don’t like either of the final 2. Last night Fantasia sounded like Minnie Mouse on crack with her rendition of “All My Life,” originally performed by the brothers from Jodeci. Diana couldn’t carry a note in a paper bag on her 2nd song. I was completely uninspired.
Memorial day weekend’s coming up! Who’s having a barbecue?
Yahoo! News – Ark. Family Marks Birth of 15th Child“>FIFTEEN CHILDREN!!???!!!! I’m getting a rash just thinking about it.
This morning, I looked at my leg and saw that I have a long, ugly ass bruise on the front of my thigh. Ugly, like if-I-wore-shorts-I-would-get-stared-at ugly. Because I don’t bruise easily, it looks like the result of a major injury. The interesting thing is that I have absolutely no recollection of anything that would have caused this bruise. My next thought was that I probably hurt myself without realizing it. And then I thought — “How could I have POSSIBLY hurt myself this badly without knowing it?” And then I got a little paranoid, wondering if I have some strange illness that would have bruising as a symptom. After I regrouped, I self-reassured by realizing that I have a tendency to be desensitized to lots of different kind of pain — physical, emotional, whatever. I’ve gotten to this weird point where I’m extremely unfazed by most things. I’m kind of proud of myself, in an odd sort of way.
This started me thinking about one of my more unpopular theories, but does anyone else think that a large part of life is about pain management? I know . . . I’m heavy this morning, but it’s already been a long day for me. I got my insomniac ass up at 6:00 after about 3 hours of sleep, cooked my lunch, worked out, obsessed about my bruise, and got to my client’s office by 8:45. But, as usual, I digress . . .
So . . . this is my theory (in case anyone cares) . . . when you’re a child, you’ve never experienced anything before, so a lot of things hurt. As you get older, you get used to them, and the next thing you know, certain things either don’t hurt anymore, or you’re impervious to the pain. This applies to anything from stubbing your toe to having hurt feelings from not having your interest reciprocated by a childhood crush.
For example, when I was very young, I was deathly afraid of needles — the hypodermic kind — and it was so severe that my doctor thought I was the only five-year-old with high blood pressure because I was so nervous at checkups, anticipating those horrible booster shots. I would scream and cry in attempt to avoid them. But now, after many surgeries, injuries, ‘procedures,’ etc., and being forced to get over it, I can get shot after shot with no problem. Occasionally I might get a tinge of anxiety, just to remind me of my past, but it goes away in three seconds or less.
The good news is that if you effectively manage emotional and physical pain, I think you can become stronger.
But here’s the rub: I firmly believe that if you don’t manage your pain, it will continue to come back to haunt you. (This could be why people are in therapy for years. Who knows?)
Just food for thought. Now I’d better get some work done!!!
It’s Monday. Ugh! I feel like I never have enough time, and then when I think about how I spend my time, I feel like I should be doing more exciting things. For instance, should I spend two hours on a gorgeous day planting annuals? Was an hour in the vitamin store a good use of my time? If I think of the alternatives — not having petunias or not having vitamins — are they really bad options? But then I guess if I weren’t doing those things, I would probably be doing something slightly more mindless, like partying.
Here’s a bit of TMI for everyone . . . part of my weekend was spent underwear shopping. Here’s what I don’t get — the thick thong. For all of the men, yes there is a difference. I see a lot of beautiful thong underwear, but sometimes the thong part is about 1 1/2 inches wide, which is butt torture, in my opinion. The string thongs are much easier to get used to — and much cuter.
For anyone who doesn’t currently wear thong underwear (this advice is limited to women, because I hate to think of men in thongs), but is thinking about embracing the rectal floss, when buying your first one, ask yourself this question (as L., a good friend once asked me) — would you rather having something thin in your crack, or something thick? Definitely something to keep in mind.
Thanks for entertaining my undie rant!
It feels like a rainforest today in scenic downtown Chicago. Any more humidity and we’d be swimming down the streets.
And by the way . . . Jasmine Trias (the American Idol candidate who sucked) was FINALLY voted off last night. But not before she could perform a heinous rendition of “Inseparable” — yet another song that my father arranged and produced. I told him that he should write a few well-phrased complaints to the show. Okay, so maybe I volunteered to write them for him and have him sign them. He laughed and declined. I was dead serious.
On another note, I heard — and I hope it’s not true — that Natalie Cole, Dionne Warwick and Whitney Houston are going to embark on a European tour together. Hmmm . . . I can’t help thinking that this combination is a really bad idea. They’re going to make some international dealer a very happy man. Maybe they should add Courtney Love to the docket so that they can have representation in all drug categories.
Lots to blog about, but let’s discuss American Idol first . . .
Jasmine Trias sucked, as usual, and I have particular disdain for her this evening for bastardizing “Mr. Melody,” a song that my father originally produced and arranged. (I guess I can only be thankful that she didn’t completely slaughter “Inseperable”) But that’s really not the point. The point is that I hope Hawaii doesn’t flood the lines this time. She really doesn’t deserve to win.
That’s it. I might blog about the rest after I get some sleep . . . if that ever happens. I’ve had a nasty case of insomnia lately. I think that means I need to work more.
I went to the gym early this morning, but this time I decided to go to one of the clubs that I don’t often visit. I belong to a small network of gyms, and I usually gravitate between 3 different clubs, depending on where I am, and what I’m in the mood to work on. Anyhoo . . . I hadn’t been to this particular club in quite a while, and had almost forgotten about the entertaining cast of characters that work/work out there.
First we have K., who’s a trainer (allegedly), and always finds a way to meander over to where I’m working out to detract from my concentration. His topic of conversation, oddly enough, is always centered around the time that he saw me interviewed on one of those cable access shows. He insists on asking me about this interview, even though I keep explaining that it was taped a long time ago, and because I have satellite, I’ve never seen any of those interviews, and can’t say that I aspire to it. The only thing I know for sure is that I probably said something wildly inappropriate, which I tend to do in interviews — or in life, for that matter.
I’ve come to the conclusion that he either a) is always eating peanut butter nutrition bars, or b) has just finished one each and every time he’s ever spoken to me. That man’s breath constantly smells like some sort of peanut-buttery thing that never fails to make me nauseous whenever he speaks to me. And the thing is that I LOVE peanut butter. For a while I thought I was going to have to have a Skippy intervention, but for some reason, the combination of him, his conversation and that breath are enough to make me hurl. Can’t explain it.
But the piece de resistance this morning was a female trainer who I’m convinced has been taking some sort of growth hormone because her voice is deep — like baritone. I was doing tricep extensions and damn near dropped a weight on my head when I heard her talk. I’ve heard her talk before, but now she sounds more like Barry White. And then I noticed her forearms are huge — like Popeye. I don’t know what’s going on with her, but let’s just say that she could be using the men’s washroom any day now.
It was all too much for me to bear at 6:30 am. Fortunately there were a few cute guys to ogle and take my mind off of everything else. One day, I’ll have to write another post about flirting dynamics at my gym.
I really hope nobody from my gym reads this blog. Yeesh!
