Me: I still don’t feel good. I haven’t been to the gym in three days, but the Workout of the Day is run a mile, row 2,000 meters, run another mile.
Wa: Sometimes you gotta say—
Me: —fuck the WOD.
Wa: That sounds like something—
Me: —you should do in the privacy of your own home—
Wa: —with a committed partner.
I’ve been suffering some seasonal allergies lately—stuffy nose, scratchy throat. Two days ago, I started shooting saline up my nose, which has helped, but at 3:30 this morning, when my ibuprofen wore off, my throat was undeniably sore, and I couldn’t get warm, I had to admit to myself I had developed a cold.
I called in sick to work, which I never do, and turned my alarm off. I would spend this day resting, no stress please and thank you.
At about 9:00, I roused myself and fed the dogs. They went outside and started arfing their heads off, so I took a peek, and
Again. Really?
He was running across the street. Collar, but no tags. I headed towards him, at which point he darted under a car and started woofing at me. His distrust was no match for his hunger, though—he was nothing but ribs!—and I distracted him long enough with treats to grab him. He bucked and barked, but I wrestled him back to my yard and fed him. He was sitting in my lap in under five minutes. Redford and Violet were pretty excited. Violet took on a reluctantly mothering demeanor, while
Little dude was so hungry. I gave him wet food, dry food, and more treats. Even after that,
I had called Animal Control the moment I got him into my yard, but an hour went by and nobody showed. At that point, everybody was getting along great.
And he just got
And I started to think maybe he’d be mine.
And then Animal Control showed up.
I cried.
About a year ago, a guy from OKCupid asked me out. His profile seemed promising, something along the lines of:
I’m unsatisfied in my current job, and I want to go back to school to become a writer.
I said, since he was a huge football fan, we should go to a sports bar and watch a football game. He could teach me all about the sport, see. I don’t mind football—I’ve always found it barbarically balletic—but I don’t understand all the rules, and there are so many rules, so I thought, “Hey, I’ll learn something, and he’ll feel like an expert. Win win.”
Remember my friend Cat and her ducks?
The dude was really caught up in the game so there was many a silence where I stirred my drink and arranged the salt-and-pepper shakers. (OK, my fault for assuming he could split his focus, but duck.)
I asked him about his writing, who his influences were. He said that guy who wrote Kiss the Girls. (Duck.)
He started revealing things about himself. Remember that line from his profile? I’ll translate:
I’m unsatisfied in my current job [at McDonald’s], and I want to go back to school [because I dropped out of UNC-Charlotte during my sophomore year] to become a writer [and even though I’m 30, I still live with my dad]. (Goose.)
I waited until the end of the game and said a polite goodbye. He contacted me again over OKCupid, and I told him gently that I didn’t think we were a match. And then he friended me on Facebook. (Turkey.)
I felt guilty—why did I feel guilty?!—so I accepted his friend request. Every so often he would post notes on his profile. He would do the Bill Maher thing and call them “New Rules”. And they were things like:
New Rule: Flat-chested girls should not wear strapless dresses. (Emu.)
I deleted him as a friend. He friended me again. (Ostrich.) I’m an idiot and accepted.
He emailed me the first chapter of a book he was writing, warning me that it was “pretty erotic”. Here’s the opening paragraph:
Jamie Crawford sat alone in Qdoba on Franklin Street in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. She ate a taco while reading her 20th Century History book. She wished someone would join her, especially a young man because she had so much to offer.
I’m hooked! Not only that, here’s some dialogue:
“So, what are you doing later?”
“Just going back to my room.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah, until around midnight or so.”
“Would you like some company?”
“Are you offering?”
“I am, actually.”
“I’d love some company.”
“Need me to drive you over?”
“Yes, that would be good.”
Move over, Mamet. Ready for some erotica?:
Once Jamie closed the door, Mark stood behind Jamie and grabbed her large breasts. The five-six, portly, busty young woman had shoulder blade-length brown hair and green eyes. She smiled at the six-foot-tall young man who had brown hair and blue eyes. He began to squeeze her large, soft breasts…Mark unzipped and unbuttoned his pants, then pulled his pants and boxer briefs down, revealing his penis.
Revealing his penis?! I think I just came. Wait, there’s more.
She looked up at her appealing partner whom she’d brought back to the dorm room. As she sucked, she used no hands. After three more minutes of oral sex, Jamie stood up.
Get ready—then he mounts her…
The two of them began to breathe deeper as Mark increased the rate of his stroking of their private regions. Jamie began to moan as Mark put more force behind his strokes.
“I’m coming!” she cried as she felt herself climax as Mark increased the force of his strokes again. He then began to climax, making strange vocalizations.
That’s right: private regions and strange vocalizations. (PTERO-FUCKING-DACTYL.)
Did you know there’s a Block button on Facebook that will completely wipe out your connection with a person and make it as if you don’t exist to them? Whew.
On a phone call the other day, the guy I was talking to mentioned a couple he knew…they had met on Friendster…and the woman was—
Wait, what?
Friendster? Who even remembers Friendster?
And, in a weird coincidence, my friend Sean posted on Facebook that day that he gone back to Friendster and found—remarkable!—we were all still there! Just five years younger than last time he looked.
Well, of course I had to take a peek at my 2005 self. Nothing crazy different, except that I had pictures up from when I was still blond. And Friendster itself is pretty dumb; it’s no wonder it tanked. Back in the day, there was no dynamic aspect to it—no “walls” to write on, nowhere to post links, no games, no reason to log in every day. But those Friendster folks had one cool idea: they had a section where people could put up testimonials. Come along with me on my Ego Trip!
My friend from college, Anthony: Amy is one of the good guys. If you walk in a room that she is in, you will be happier than you were before you walked into that room. And I assure you – it’s not because of her choice of rooms.
Another friend from college, Ehren: The first thing you notice about Amy is her voluptuous, no –sumptuous– hotness. She is built for speed. But beneath all that sugar and spice, she is savvy and sweet, and on top of all that, she’s actually a conscientious human being who is actually giving of herself to make the world a better place. I just wish she would invite me over more. *Sigh*
My old roomie, Dan: There is no one in the world like Amy – I couldn’t adore her more. Bright, compassionate, charming and witty, and does she have an ass on her? DAMN. I’m talking bout a ghetto onion to make a brother cry…[Ed. note: Dan is a Jew.] Sweet, smart, and beautiful. Amy has it all in one amazingly-assed package. She may also be one of the prettiest women in the world – though I couldn’t tell you for sure cause I’m still looking at her butt…
Patricia, a gringa friend I met during my study-abroad semester: I met Amy at a World Boggle Tournament in Mexico [Ed. note: WBT took place in her living room.] and she blew me away with her smarts, her salsa, and her use of diagonal tiles. And then I lost track of her and I thought- Anyone who gets to live near Amy is lucky and should never complain about anything. She is outrageously beautiful, funny, generous, real, and has really good vocab. Those third graders are the luckiest of all.
A New York friend, Caroline: Amy has, quite possibly, the very best laugh in the history of the universe.
Yet another UNC friend, also named Amy and probably the funniest woman I know: amy’s heart is as big as her laugh. she is beautiful and thoughtful, she makes lethal baked goods, and she’ll never tell you, but she’s a damn good actress.
And last but not least, TWO from my sister-in-law, Melissa. The first from 2003: amy is one of the most genuinely caring people i have ever known. she is beautiful in every way a person can be beautiful. and her laugh is contagious. and her ass is worshipful. i actually worship at the altar of her ass.
And the second from 2005: amy makes the world a better place, on purpose and with meaning. amy constantly challenges herself. she inspires awe. she climbs mountains, solves puzzles, makes pronouncements and never settles. amy is wicked smaht but will never make you feel small. amy decided i should marry her brother and i decided to go along with it. she just knows what’s best.
What did I learn from this experience?
My good buddy, former roomie, altogether-great-guy Dan commented on my post about Saturday’s workout:
Perhaps this coach was actually doing her job – being a coach? She’s there to help you confront what is keeping you from being the person you want to be. And you’re there because you want to make some changes.
So make some changes. Do what you normally wouldn’t do – so what if you come in last? Like you don’t deserve to be a part of a team, merely because you’re not the best one on it?
Take the coaching Amy; she says wax the cars, wax on, wax off…
My problem wasn’t the content of the coaching, Dan. It was the delivery. Her face was a mask of disgust; disdain oozed from her sweat glands.
And I know you’re going to say, “Take the coaching anyway.” To which I’ll reply, “No. Shut the hell up. (Love you!)” Part of coaching is motivating. What if I scoffed at my student Zeke and said, “Why can’t you just spell?”
(Plus, I don’t mind being part of a team, if I feel like I can contribute something. Maybe in the future I’ll be there, but right now I’m not.)
So was I feeling sorry for myself?* Mos def.
Was she being a good coach?** Fuck no.
*I had taken 45 fourth graders on a 15-hour field trip the day before. I’m giving myself a break for being a little vulnerable.
**Let it be said that this was not one of the usual coaches at CrossFit. Every other coach I’ve had has been helpful, knowledgeable, courteous, and supportive.
P.S. Dan’s pretty much always right about stuff. It makes me so MAD.
Since age 12, I’ve had an epic battle with acne. I was on tetracycline in high school, and Retin-A, which made me so sensitive to the sun that my face would fry off, leaving a pulpy, gory, raw mess where my nose used to be. I used tinted Clean & Clear and really believed it covered up my zits, though I probably looked like I had a pigment disorder since it came only in ‘tanning bed orange’.
I spent the year I was 17-turning-18 in Italy. Not only did my host family members, teachers, and—hey!—even strangers on the street tell me I was fat, but my advisor’s husband looked at my face at one point and said, “Brufoli!” (That’s “Pimples!” to you and me.) And he ran to the pharmacy to get me some medicated face cream.
I’ve tried a number of Neutrogena products:
I’ve tried stuff As Seen On TV:
And knock-offs of stuff As Seen on TV:
Alas. I’m 35, and I break out like a high school sophomore.
Last weekend, I caught part of The People’s Pharmacy, and this dude was saying that, in cultures where the people don’t eat refined sugar, even the teenagers don’t break out.
First dairy.
Then gluten.
Now I’m going to have to stop eating sugar.
Don’t mind me, I’ll just be over here eating my salmon and alfalfa sprouts. Crying.
Goddamn you, Joe and Terry Graedon!
P.S. Look up their podcast on iTunes. Some are labeled “clean”, which others are “explicit”. Hahahahahahahaha.
