Too Many Chicks In One Room Is Not A Good Idea, or "Sex and the City," Yikes.

Women, in mass quantities, could feasibly end the world.

I say this, because I had the supremely disturbing experience of going to see "Sex and the City" on opening night last weekend. It was pink. It was loud. It smelled like a perfume counter.

And it renewed my faith in Men.

Like most women between the ages of 18 and 40 (maybe 1 and 100?), I enjoy the HBO series "Sex and the City." It took me and my dear friend Kristin 6 months to watch all bajillion episodes last year, and now that I've had the oddly pleasurable experience of watching the last two-and-a-half hour episode, er, movie, I can say I've seen it all. And I can add to that that in all honesty, despite the ration of shit I have gotten from my male associates, it was enjoyable.

For the most part.

Maybe it's because it was opening night (worst idea ever), or maybe because it's the only movie of the summer targeted specifically at women ("Iron Man" could count, because Robert Downey, Jr. is very much back on his game, but not for purposes of my argument), or maybe because I'll always be skeptical of Other Women who aren't my proven, trusted friends, but going to see this movie can only be described as an utterly bizarre, rude awakening as to how women across the country behave and what they must be thinking.

I'll break it down into several phases:

Phase I: Standing In Line

Naturally, on opening night of virtually any anticipated film there will be a line. But the line for "Sex and the City" stands in a category all by itself. I got there almost an hour early, and waited and watched as hundreds (literally hundreds, it was so scary!) of women lined up behind me, all giddy and eager, all with the same look of hopeful desperation on their faces, as if they'd all been waiting three years for an orgasm that never...quite...came. In groups of four, sometimes five or six (any more than four is sooo passe), they chatted, and giggled, and often full-on squawked. Many tried way too hard to look "the part" with fancy heels and flashy couture. Others had horrifically large collagen-filled lips and Botox-deadened eyebrows. And there was more pink in that line than I've ever seen in one place. The group of chicks in front of us had even fashioned these horrendous shirts earlier that day.

An explosion at a nearby Amoxicillin factory would have made more sense. As it was, the sickening pink obsession happening in that line was more than this girl could handle.

Phase II: Being Herded Into The Theater Like Cows to the Slaughter

Eating beef on occasion does not imply that I would ever enjoy being part of a cattle drive, but as the doors opened to the theater, I had no say in the matter and was reduced just another piece of dress-wearing meat. Luckily my friends and I were at the front of the line and thus able to avoid the absurdity of cat-fighting our way into a row of seats next to each other. Equally lucky was I to witness said absurdity. As the bitches flooded in, it was nothing short of a shit-show battle for chairs. It's baffling how inclined to fight "the fairer sex" can be. Sure, women are generally more inclined to share (it's a quality we have a natural tendency to adopt as children), but for some reason all efforts to "be nice" disappear when really important stuff is on the line. Really important stuff like a perfectly unobstructed view of all the totally awesome outfits Carrie Bradshaw wears in the most totally awesome city in alllll the land, New York.* Look out ladies, there are other, more vicious women around, and they will verbally smack you down if you insist on saving seats.

Phase III: The Crazy-ass Fucking Screaming During The Opening Credits

Yeah. So the theme song came on, and it was mayhem. So much screaming.


Phase IV: Watching The Movie and Feeling Like A Soulless Vacuum For Not Crying

So much dramatic stuff happened, it was almost laughable (to me). For everyone else it was apparently quite cryable. I mean, I see how trying to wrap up a nearly 10-year series with a loyal (almost overly-so) audience in less than 2 hours could be difficult, so I applaud the writers' efforts to cram in a plausible narrative storyline in with years and years of background. But some of the emotional stunts they pull are just silly. They're designed to get you to cry, and then to laugh, and then to cry again... those bastards. I see right through their dirty tricks! Dammit if I'll be turning on the waterworks when those fab-four shove their ludicrously expensive wardrobes and their enviable luxury lifestyles in my face while I get ready to leave my pointless job and move home.

All in all, the movie itself was...well, fun I guess. It was mostly predictable, but Carrie changes her hair color at one point, so I guess it was a little unpredictable, too. I enjoyed seeing the characters for one last hurrah, and I'm not "unglad" that I went. There are things in life I'm not proud of, but that's no reason to hide them in a shoe box on a shelf in my retardedly huge, custom designed closet.** But similar to radiation from an atom bomb, the estrogen fall-out from that movie theater will probably be enough to give me PMS for a month.

...and it might even destroy the world.


*What? Don't act like you didn't know.
**That's a loose reference to the movie, if you haven't, or don't plan to see it.

The Apparent Nightmare of Working Motherhood, or, "I Can Teach My Kids Spanish By Myself, Thank you Very Much"

This entry is all about advice I'm not qualified to give.

First piece of advice: Avoid Credit Card Debt.

Second piece of advice: Don't Bitch To Me About Your Nanny.

If you count a degree in Communications something real and/or of value, then you can call me a college educated, reasonably intelligent person. I realize that there are issues out there in the world on which people have varying opinions. Some opinions are stronger, some are weaker, and although I am a woman, I too have a point of view that some egalitarian societies would consider valid. While I generally tend to veer away from divisive issues because I want everyone to like me, this is a safe place where women are free, so I think it's OK for me to blog my mind. I'm a grown up now (not really), and after seeing the poster enough times I realize that being right is not always popular, and being popular is not always right. Or whatever.*


Don't worry, I'm not going to write about abortion or the death penalty or gay marriage or states' rights. Let's be honest, I have reached a certain level of cyber-popularity,** and now that I have an online reputation to maintain I'd rather not stir up any shit in my posted comments section lest I risk losing any one of my 4-7 readers.

Plus you already figured out that this entry is about Nannies, so you know it's not going to be that outrageous. This isn't Berkeley. And I'm not some fanatic (Berkeley is the only place you can find fanatics these days). So let's get started...

Face the facts, reader: Nannies are the new Mommies.

It's true. The times they are a'changin', and what was once commonplace, over time becomes passe.

Green Tea is the new Coffee.
Quitting Jobs and Moving Home is the new Hard Work.
Hooking up is the new Going Steady.

Nannies are the new Mommies.

Granted, the notion of "A Village" raising "A Child" is not an entirely new thing. Maternal Expert and Presidential Hopeful, Hilary Rodham Clinton, even went so far as to write a book on this very subject! One I don't plan on reading. But even before Hilary, it was supposedly an African proverb (however, the truth of that statement has not yet been verified by Wikipedia, but I trust 90% of what they say 90% of the time).

Apparently we have a lot to learn from Africa. And from Hilary Clinton.


Or do they have a lot to learn from me? Because I'm pretty sure that regardless of the truth in the idea that a child's community and society are very much influential components of that child's upbringing, I'm also pretty sure that Parents raise Children. Call me old fashioned, but I'm almost positive I'm right.

The way I learned it was: Parents get drunk... Parents conceive child... Parents give birth to child... Parents raise child. It makes sense to me, but my un-hipness is more apparent by the minute, because from what I can see, even this simple formula has become passe.

Why? You ask.

Because I hear a lot about Nannies. Specifically bitching about Nannies.

A woman I work with recently had twins and until she hired a new one, she was always bitching about her nanny. Ok, so twins have got to be a massive handful for a new mom. Zero to sixty in nine months. I get it. Taking care of one baby is enough of a handful, so naturally two babies would be very overwhelming for anyone... including a Nanny, right?

Maybe I'm really anti-nanny because I don't make enough money at present to justify getting one. If I had a kid, it'd be just as expensive for me to employ someone to raise it while I went to work as it would be to not work at all. Perhaps if I was actually realizing my earning potential, I'd be more inclined to hire a Spanish-speaking mother for my children. But likely not.

Lady, if you want your babies to be held a certain way, or fed at a certain time, or to acknowledge you as their primary caretaker, you should stop bitching all day about your nanny and either train her to be JUST LIKE YOU, or quit your job and RAISE YOUR CHILDREN.

I didn't hire anyone to do my homework for me in high school. I didn't hire anyone to do my job for me at work. And I don't plan on hiring a pinch-runner-nanny to raise my kids for me.


Mostly because I hate working.



*Note that I am actually too lazy to re-arrange the verbiage of that phrase, and would rather just insert a footnote.

**Also, it is un-confirmable.

"Misery Loves (working for a) Company, or "I Quit My Job Again, Please Don't Be Shocked."

I quit my job again.

Surprise, surprise.

I didn't last too long at this one, either. Last fall I quit my first job. Here we are, in the dead of Springtime, and already I've quit my second job. They say (and They are always right) that the average person makes an average of seven career changes over the course of their average lifetime. Well, I guess if I was Average I'd have five more chances to get my shit together and amass my fortune.

But I'm not average. Am I.

Nope. I consider myself to be quite un-average, and in some cases even above average. It was true when it came to my BMI as a 9 year old. It was true when I took the SAT II Writing Exam (I am brilliant, clearly), and it is especially true now as I explore the very awful, unfriendly, and disconcerting world of Work. You don't believe me, perhaps, but I am something of a phenom when it comes to Working. Allow me to explain...

Regarding my experience in the workforce, my contributions are nothing short of astounding, and my potential to be an Outstanding Employee has only been overshadowed by my potential to be a Disgruntled Employee. In the last year, I have discovered that I have what some people might call "Extraordinary Abilities."

For example, I have the extraordinary ability to start showing up late once I have decided I am going to quit. And in fact today, having quit early last week and sensing the end of my tenure nearing, I left for two hours at lunch without remorse, nor regret. No one seemed to notice or care and I received all of ONE email over that span of time. So now that I have established this precedent, I will most likely not rush back to the office on my next much anticipated lunchtime voyage to the Northridge Trader Joe's.

Another example: I also have the extraordinary ability to take simple tasks that would take an "average" worker a few hours and stretch them out over the course of a workweek, thus achieving the two-fold goal of appearing excessively busy throughout the day while successfully using most of my time to chat online, draw nonsense pictures on MS Paint, and click on randomly selected links to Youtube videos that I am sent by people I love and trust - who are also extraordinarily talented workers.*

A third notable sample of my unparalleled, uninspiring on-the-job talent is my ability to manufacture water-tight, non-negotiable excuses to leave. Among those excuses have been: "I'm sorry, but I hate this job, and actually I'm not sorry," and "This is more inconvenient for you than it is for me, but I'm moving, and I won't be taking this job with me." Such exemplary reasons for quitting my job(s) have only come about as a result of my OTHER extraordinary ability to complain about my place of work and the duties I am forced to perform there. Chances are, if you have ever actually talked to me (and the chances are good), you will know just how overly-achieved I am at this (I guess some things never change). I like to list it on my resume under Special Skills. Yes, Future Employer, not only am I bilingual - for someone who looks Mexican I speak some damn good broken Spanish - I will also think of and vocalize to my friends and family a thousand reasons your company sucks, and how upon hiring me the work you'll make me do will drain my soul of its ability to feel.

My list of extraordinary qualifications goes on and on...

But the gist of it is, I quit jobs...like it's my job.

Which makes me think a few things.** The first being, is it possible to be a Serial Employee? We've all heard of Serial Killers and hip, trendy 21st century catch phrases like "Serial Monogamist," so why not Serial Employee? I could make my living by going from job to job, nailing interviews, breezing through training, getting promptly into the swing of things and then lowering the axe - BOOM! BAM! TWO WEEKS BITCHES I QUIT!

If there is a job out there for someone who quit jobs, then I'm definitely a qualified candidate.

"Tell us, Ms. Zine, what was it you did at your last job?"

"Oh, well, I quit my last job. And the job before it."

"Fantastic! You appear to be just what we're looking for. We'd love to hire you, but we hope you'll leave soon."

Only in a perfect world...

Let the blog-record show that I have indeed quit my job and will be moving to Northern California sometime this summer. Instead of two weeks, I gave them two months. And while I have never used the excuse, "I hate this job," I really do hate working.



*We should form a League, and call it The League of Extraordinary Workers. Who's with me?!

** I have a very active mind, despite its being numbed by hours of mundane, drawn-out tasks.

Summer Heat Makes Me Sorta Bitchy, or The Bummer Of Imperfect Genetics

Damn, it is hot.

I mean, good Lord, it's only April.

Spring itself is but a babe in arms, just barely a month old (not even off the breast!) and yet she somehow displays the unbecoming heat of her adolescent sister, Summer - complete with slutty outfits and bad attitude, to be sure.

Point is, it's been fucking hot out, and I'm so over it already. In just two days of turning on the A/C I've grown weary of going to sleep at night splayed atop my covers like a dead animal, my t-shirt sticky against my lightly sweaty skin. Hard to believe, right? since it sounds so fun. I've tried sleeping with a re-freezable cold pack, which kind of helps but not really since the unbearable warmth between my breasts ultimately sucks the cold right out of it. I've also tried keeping a glass of cool water at my bedside, which again fails me miserably not only because it's lukewarm by about 12:30am, but because it causes me to have to pee at regular intervals throughout the night. This is both terribly uncomfortable and disruptive to my sleep cycles and sends my resting heart rate through the roof; that is, once I can stop battling the voices in my head that tell me to stay in bed it's a-ok to piss my pants.

My final method of choice is, I believe, a pretty common fall-back heat fighting option: The Cold Shower. Sure it calms my nerves when I'm feeling unbearably sexy with no place to go*, but it's also in theory a good way to lower one's core temperature and relieve oneself of the awfulness that is Summer heat. Of course, once I'm actually IN the shower with the water ON, it's all but impossible to heat the water right back up. Goosebumps and shivers are hardly a cure to heat exhaustion. God, nothing helps. It's so annoying.

But this brings me to my actual point, and it is this: Some things are really only good in theory.

Yeah, yeah I know. This is hardly a new thought. I'm not claiming to forge new philosophical ground, people. Never claimed to do nothin' of the sort. Allz I do is write what I think, and right now I'm thinking it's an effing hotbox in my room, and yes sometimes my thoughts are terrifically ordinary. So what. You can stop reading.

That aside, I think it actually is an interesting notion to ponder, because I often find myself doing or thinking things that work in my head, but in reality (or in practice, as they say) fall somewhere short of realistic.

Take, for instance, this two-headed baby.


In theory, if I saw this double-faced baby say, at the grocery store with her/their mom, or playing on a swing at the park, I would be very gracious and kind. I would try not to make the parents feel awkward or judged by their child's (or is it children's?) genetic misfortune. No, in theory I would be the model compassionate citizen and politely offer the little girl(s) two Otter-pops whenever I hosted a backyard BBQ, and two goodie bags at my kid's birthday party. And I would even be cool enough to casually dismiss the existence of the child's two faces by blurring my eyes when I looked at them so that the two faces created one. In theory, I would NOT make puns about the child's "duplicitous nature," or watch Batman Forever in her presence (the one where Tommy Lee Jones plays Two-Face... that would be so brutal).

But that's just in theory.

In reality, if I saw this poor little baby with two faces in the arms of its mother, I would almost certainly have trouble not gawking. Of course I wouldn't make faces, or stare with my mouth agape**... but I'd probably stare. Just a little. I'm sorry! It's just so rare, and COME ON TWO FACES! I know, there should be a place where all the people who have unbelievable curiosities about them can get together and showcase their absurd genetic "gifts!" And this place should be under a big red and white striped tent.... with a circle in the middle where they can go display themselves in brightly colored clothing... and people can come and eat peanuts and watch them eat Otter-pops.... Oh, and there should be elephants.

Great idea, right? IN THEORY. (Cue Old Man in a derby waving his hand across the sky saying in his most convincing voice, "I got big dreams kid. We're gonna be rich!") I fear in reality this would be a lot like the circus, which is a frightening, horrible place to take a child. Even a two-faced child.

I'm a horrible person.

In a perfect world no one would have four eyes and two mouths. In theory, even in our completely imperfect world "no one" really has four eyes and two mouths. But then again, the world is a much nicer place, in theory...

Take a second and re-read the circus comments.

Looks like I, too, am much nicer in theory.




*That's actually plainly untrue. Nothing helps.

** Yes I would.

Craigslist.org Truly Blows My Mind, or "WF, 23, well-Endowed, Seeks LTR with the Internet."

My God, I do love Craigslist.

If and when I have a baby boy (fingers crossed- I don't want to have to drown a girl!) I'm going to consider naming him Craig. Or at least nicknaming him Craig. I'm not sure that the name Craig is actually a name I'd give my child, but I want the point to be clear that I'd fucking fight lions for Craigslist and love it enough to briefly mention in my blog that I might possibly, but not probably, consider naming my future son Craig.

I know! I'm going to name my dog Craig. No, strike that. I'm naming my dog CRAIGSLIST!

Here boy! Fetch mommy a new couch!

Perhaps you're reading this and have thus begun to scratch your chin, deep in thought as to why exactly I am so in love with Craig and his infamous list. In fact, I'm sure that's what you're doing right now. Even if you weren't before, I bet you just scratched your chin. Don't lie, I know you did, I sawl it.

My first reason for loving Craigslist is that it has provided me with countless hours of free entertainment in the form of the Craigslist Personals. Take for random example, Chris: a 39 year-old pantyhose lover from Brentwood.

Pantyhose lover seeks same... - 39 (Brentwood)

---

Reply to: pers-652725528@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-04-22, 8:18PM PDT


I have always loved the look and feel of women's legs in nylon. I especially like sheer suntan pantyhose worn with casual clothes, like shorts and sneakers (but skirt and heels are nice, too!). I am not looking for sex necessarily; just some pantyhose modeling, maybe a little role play and all the leg and foot massage you want.

Hope to hear from you,
Chris (Pantyhose lover in Brentwood)


Chris is just a regular guy, right? He's just your average, hosiery-loving Dude. He doesn't want to hurt anyone. Hell, he doesn't even want sex! Chris just likes a little hose on his ho's... you knows? And he lives in Brentwood, the birthplace of Class. How convenient that would be for me, if only I were a woman who wore pantyhose* and enjoyed disturbing role play... and wanted to DIE while getting a foot massage.

A match made in heaven, surely, for some lucky broad.

I can imagine the response he'll get, ultimately from an EXTREMELY classy ol' cougar, crusty with uneven self tanner and Tahitian-Temptress nylons (obviously trying to hide the unsightly spots with which Time has cursed her). "Well hello there young man," she'll write (in her sexiest font - let's face it, probably Lucida Calligraphy). "I may be old enough to be your mother, but I'm kinky enough to pretend I really am. I just LOVE role-play and at 67, I'm no stranger to close encounters with death. I've had three orally-induced strokes already! I hope you're ready for this gray-haired goddess!"

Oh, Chris. You are hilarious. And pathetic. And you've successfully humiliated yourself in front of everyone in the whole world. I hope I see you at Coral Tree on Sunday morning with a nylon-donning dame on your arm. And I hope it's Dame Judi Dench, cuz damn that old bitch is fly.

So perusing other peoples' lamentable love-quests is one really good reason for naming my future doggie Craigslist. Because this magical place has the power to bridge the gap (sometimes the gaping hole, if we're still talkin' old broads) between people. Craigslist supports Honesty and the Power of Love, which is the most powerful force in alllll the land!

Another reason I love Craigslist is that it provides me with a sense of possibility. When I get bored at work, which is all day every day, I often like to take a look at real estate in far away places. Places like Greece, and Indonesia (yeah right, jk), and Costa Rica. Did you know you can rent a studio apartment in Athens for 300 Euro per month? If that doesn't suit you, Costa Rica generously offers beach front properties for as low as $500/mo. - and that INCLUDES the Doberman out front to guard you from the dark, dark night!

All cheekiness aside (okay, it's never actually aside, that was a bald-faced lie**), I like knowing that there is a world beyond my own, where people rent cozy flats in foreign cities, or fasten hammocks to backyard palm trees. Because some days, mine feels like a soul-sucking vacuum.

Call me a Craigslist Escapist, because dammit, that's what I am.

Sure I could tell you romantic tales of how I found my sage-green Plummers sofa, or my bed-frame, or my newly-repaired car on Craigslist. Or how I sold off a wool rug and a twin-size mattress (who needs it!) using the very same free, web-based community forum. But those stories lie at the mere edges of my Venn diagram of reasons for loving Craigslist. They are but the film atop my pudding snack - sure they keep it tasting fresh, but they are a far cry from the best part!

By now, of course, Craigslist is nothing new to people, and someone has probably already thought to name their pup Craigslist and my idea has already been ruined, and the Internet has probably already found a girlfriend (that pantyhose wearing WHORE)... but I still love every part of it, from concept, to boredom browsing, to actual point-of-sale execution. And I will continue to love Craigslist...

Until I have nothing left to post.



*I'm half Lebanese and thus God has painted my skin a certain shade of caramel. I don't need no lousy pantyhose!

** The expression is indeed "Bald-Faced Lie," though it is often confused with "Bold-Faced Lie," which is wrong. [http://wiki.answers.com/Q/Is_the_correct_term_'bold_face_lie'_or_'bald_faced_lie'_or_another_variation]

I Got Into A Car Accident But It Taught Me A Lot About The World, or My Fender Bender As A Metaphor For Other Things

I hate it when people start speeches or essays or blog entries with basic word definitions. But because I'm feeling a bit contrary tonight, I'm going to do exactly the shit I hate, and start this entry with a basic word definition.

The word is:

Accident (ak-si-dent): Any event that happens unexpectedly, without a deliberate plan or cause.

There are other definitions, this is true, but I like this one because it doesn't have a point of view. No side-taking, no partiality. It's the Argon of the available definitions on Dictionary.com, and so I'm going with it. This is how I want to think of the word Accident, and how I want you to define it for the duration of the time it takes you to read this entry. If you're a fast reader, I promise that'll only be like, 3 minutes max. After that, you are welcome to think of Accidents however you please and I'll be none the wiser.

I'll argue for just a minute why I like this definition of Accident. Firstly, I think my friend Accident gets confused too often with his evil (fraternal) twin, Mistake. You've heard your friends parents casually slip the word into their conversations about how your buddy (let's call him Chucky, because who doesn't want a buddy named Chucky?) came into the world. "Well you know, our little Chucky was a mistake!" Sure, you're taken aback at first, because you love your friend Chucky, and he's no stinkin' mistake. In fact, you're pretty glad he exists. And so are his parents, when you really get down to it. Aside from the constant chatter and fake gun noises and lizard squashing, alongside the high emotional cost and financial burden of raising a child, Chucky's mom and dad are probably pretty happy they decided against abortion.* What they meant to say in front of you at the neighborhood BBQ after one too many pomegranate ciders (Chucky's mom is a lightweight), is that as parents are happy that Chucky happened into the world. But the fact remains that Chucky was an accident. A happy little Ritalin-popping, bundle-of-joy Accident.

Have I made myself clear? Not all accidents are mistakes. That's the point I just made in case you missed it. And this is the lens of enlightenment through which I have decided to view something that happened recently to me... something that happened unexpectedly and without deliberate plan.

Let's call it a car accident.

I call it that because that's what it was. Gosh, you're really reading into this aren't you.

Yeah, so a couple of weeks ago, I was cruising along at my normal pace (my Life-Pace I like to call it), which is a mind-dulling 10 mph, waiting my turn to get onto the freeway. Down here in paradise, I often find myself in interminably long lines, waiting to pick up the pace. So bored, I do often get. And nothing could have been truer on that fateful Monday morning.

I was in traffic on Sunset Blvd. (man, fuck Sunset Blvd.), waiting to get on the 405 (man, fuck the 405) and I stopped paying attention to the path laid out before me for just a split second. LITERALLY JUST A SECOND, I swear - when BOOM! came the impact of the fateful fender bender. The Crash Heard 'Round the World, I like to call it.


I was immediately shaken. (Shaken, not stirred, mind you). I saw the crunched hood of my car and the pieces of shattered headlight on the pavement - which are still there, by the way. My stomach dropped at the sight of my front end violently kissing (more like raping, I guess?) the bumper of the Honda CRV in front of me. Fuck me, I thought ever-so-sweetly to myself. I have... a situation.

A situation indeed. An unexpected situation. An unplanned situation.

An accident, if you will.

Useless details aside, I was actually astounded with the chain of events that followed. Or more accurately, I was both astounded and delighted with the people involved in the events that followed. First, the young woman whose rear-end I violated with my huge metal machine could not have been nicer about it. She was more concerned with my safety and well being than with the pretty minor damage I did to her (and her car... oh snap!). Her understanding was only paralleled the thoughtfulness of my co-worker who came to pick me up from the scene of the accident. Oh, not to mention that the woman I spoke with at AAA, Diane, was both sincere and accommodating. Diane even went to the trouble of sending me a tow-truck driver on a great white steed who actually gave me a hug and told me that because I was so beautiful he'd take my car anywhere I wanted! Oh boy, I thought. Take my car to Disneyland, please!

And then the guy at the auto shop was so sweet and helpful. For the low price of $5,000** he even got my car done a few days ahead of schedule. What a gem, that guy. Chris, if you're reading this, you made my collision repair experience borderline enjoyable. Thanks a load.

So after it was all said and done, my Situation... well it turned out all right. Sure it was kind of rough, but I'm not going to say I wish it never happened. I can't say that. It was unexpected, and out of nowhere, and cost me a bit of time, energy, and frustration. Oh, and money (dammit! I wanted new shoes, too!). It's the feeling of helplessness, of being far away from the problem and unable to fix it immediately that causes the greatest stress. But I did learn something. I learned how to handle it. I learned to see things from a more hopeful angle, and to trust that things would be OK in spite of whatever damage may have been done. Accidents happen, we all know this. But it's how you choose to react and move forward that really matters.

Remember Chucky? Well I know that even though he's fictional, he's still glad he exists. Even if it's just here in the blogosphere (it's a real place, shut up okay?). Some accidents can cost you six years of little league, a thousand sleepless nights, and the price of a college education, while other accidents can cost your insurance company $5000... but that certainly doesn't make those things Mistakes.

Give adversity (and the asshole who rear-ended you) your most insulting middle finger! Fuck you, adversity! I choose to stand up to you! I will beat you down, wreck your face, and overcome your torture. Because I am strong, and capable - and now I guess, flat broke.

Yes the situation sucked for awhile. But I'll be damned if I didn't learn something good about the world.

It's not so bad out there.



*One would hope. I've met some people who I suspect really were mistakes. God's mistakes.

**Don't worry! I'm in good hands with AllState.

The Anatomy of a Spinning Class, or "This Seat Makes Me Feel Funny..."

I'm about to give you too much information.

Like, in a few minutes I will acknowledge the existence of my vagina, and if that in any way disturbs or disgusts you, I suggest both a) growing up and 2) not reading any further.

Still reading? Ok, fine. It's your choice. You've been properly warned, and I will make no further apologies.

Some of you may be aware of my recent obsession with spinning. Others may not. So be it, now you know. I spin, Ok? I spin and I don't care who knows it!

"Spinning, Lisa. Really?" you say inquisitively to me through the computer-screen-wormhole (I can't hear you! Speak up!). "Like, moving around the room in circles until your face throbs and you want to throw up?" No silly! Not that kind of spinning. I only do that when I've been drinking. "Oh, so you must mean those skeletal bikes that have a vague resemblance to medieval torture/death tools? The ones that sit positioned like a swarm of killer bees in the dimly lit room next to the weight-machine-sausage-fest?"

Yes. That room. Those bikes. Those sausages.

Haha. Sausage fest. God, it's so true...

So since this blog is really just a self-serving way for me to tell everyone who reads it about all the awesome things I think and do on a daily basis, I'm going to describe for you, in as much relevant detail as possible, what it is like to become, and ultimately have the physical experience of a Spinner.Because in the absence of a promiscuous sex-life (which very good exercise - just ask this kid!), this is how I burn the extra calories.

For people who have never tried spinning, I'll be the first to agree it is initially quite intimidating. Everyone in class seems to already know what they're doing. You walk cautiously into the room, certain that everyone in it has been there before. They come wearing their pretentious spinning shoes, with smug, self-loving looks on their faces. So proud of their fancy footwear, they are! And so quick to judge you for wearing sneakers...

Then slowly, as if the eyes of the world were watching, you mount the saddle for the first time. Self-consciously you check yourself in the mirror. Is it really that obvious? Can they tell? Is everyone actually staring at your non-exercise-specific-shoes? You can sense their judging eyes on you and you get even more awkward, feeling as though you're the only one who has ever turned pedals for the first time. The only one feeling the strangely erotic discomfort of the seat pressed firmly against your pubic bone...

Sure it's scary at first, because riding something new is always gonna shake you up a little bit the first time you ride it. And at the first few attempts I'll be honest, it kinda hurts, but once you get the hang of it, it comes pretty naturally.

And then, kids, it gets really good.

The awkward tingling sensation in your nethers eventually goes away,* and before you know it, you're UP! You're DOWN! Up. Down. Up. Down. UP! UP! UP! With expert speed and timing, you pump your legs to the beat of the music! Suddenly the song changes and your instructor's iPod shuffle skips to Cake's "Going the Distance." Yes! I LOVE this song! You think to yourself. Pump. Pump. Pump. The bass pulsates throughout room, invigorating your core, and it's all you can do to stay focused and stare intently at whoever's ass is 5 feet in front of you, bouncing sloppily over the saddle...

Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.

Bodies sweating. Heavy breathing. Equipment creaking.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

And this goes on for about 50 more minutes.

Of course, by the end of class you're pretty much out of breath. Your muscles are damn near exhausted, and there's a disgusting, messy puddle of sweat dripping from your face down the front of your shirt onto a spot on the floor directly beneath your handlebars. It's horrifying to look down, to catch a glimpse of your haggard reflection in said puddle and realize that your body has lost that much fluid (not to mention whatever you juiced onto the seat - sorry, it's a fact). But it's only horrifying in the same way popping a huge zit might be - sure you're totally grossed out, and maybe a little shocked, but damn it feels good to watch that sucker blow.

And then you stretch.

And then you leave.

And then you get afuckingddicted.

When I tell people about spinning, they usually don't believe me when I state emphatically that it's the best thing ever. Low impact! Won't hurt your joints! I say. A killer workout! I say. You'll never go back to the treadmill again! And I repeat this, over and over and over again, only to hear the naysaying protests of non-believers. Who knows, you may get really good and on top of a great workout, you might actually achieve multiple orgasms.

Oh! Ye of little faith!

I mean, sure I'd rather be burning my excess booze calories in "other ways," but in my situation that's not exactly feasible.** So don't badger me if I'm willing to take the next-best hard thing I can get away with having between my thighs.

You'd best be believin' ...it's a bike.



*Gentlemen, I can only assume you'd get this sensation as well, albeit in the absence of a vagina I think it'd be more in your grundle-region. Enjoy!

** :(