Sunday, January 24, 2010

Dear Abby: Is my muffin top all that whole grain low fat??

Readership,

Once again, my sister Abby has taken over my mind grapes and has contributed to this blog. Here she is responding to an email sent to her from an eager fan of her tight abs.

Enjoy.


Dear Abby,

Hi! I’m a young person who has resolved to get into working out this year! I know that working out is the equivalent of sliding down a banister of broken glass and landing in a pool of lemon juice but somehow you work up the gumption to do it on the daily!

How can I be more like you?

 

Sincerely,

Jared (of Subway)

 

 

Dear Fattie (not your name I know, but I am going to call you that)

 

Thanks for writing; not like I have anything better to do than respond. But last I checked, my Facebook profile still said “Single”, so I guess I have some spare time.  Want to work out more? Let me tell you, it is a dangerous world out there for those trying to be fit or - lets be honest - burn off those cookies I shoved in my face last night while watching Project Runway.

THE HUNT

To begin, you must find a place where this cursed experience will occur. You may think that this is the easiest part considering all the gyms out there. Well this might be why you’re a fool with a BMI of 54. There is a huge distinction that exists in the world of exercise and that is the distinction between a Sports Club and a Gym. To begin, Sports Clubs are where your parents are members. They cost $YourFirstBorn a year and you can’t afford it. You will most likely end up at a Gym until you turn 40 or marry a wealthy Sugar Daddy (my personal life goal) Sports Clubs are where the elite suburban bourgeois shed their pounds in order to fit into their three-piece suits and cocktail dresses.

 

Now, I don’t know you. But if you are reading a blog, chances are that your income and standard of living just don’t make you Sports Club material.

 

Let me help you differentiate with a few obvious examples:

Sports Clubs have names like “Sport & Health” or “LiveWell Health Club”. Gyms dumb it down for the lower classes and keep it at one-word names such as “Results” and “Crunch” or with an exclamation point such as “Tough and Lean!” 

Sports Clubs resemble your dentist office while your Gym is a former hollowed-out warehouse.

The guy at the front desk of a Sports Club is a polo-shirt clad fellow named Trevor. Conversely, Krystal checks you in at the Gym while talking on her Boost Mobile phone.

Sports Clubs have a Day Spa named Serenity or Solace, and your Gym is next to SolarXXX tanning salon.

Sports Club parking lots are filled with Volvos and Lexus SUVs. Gyms have 1998 Honda Civic hatchbacks and Mazda Pick-ups with bumper stickers.

You MUST know this distinction. Otherwise, that blonde yuppie giving you a tour of the Sports Club will send you back to the Taco Bell where you came from.

THE KILL

Once you choose your place to exercise, you now have to get dressed. (Lord willing) Imagine my surprise when I showed up at my new Gym in my old First Baptist Church 2002 Choir Tour T-shirt and the shorts I slept in last night, only to be met with stares of “OMG. Did she just get hit by the bus that she had to take to get here?” Little did I know that unless your muscles are bursting from your UnderArmor skintight top (boy) or your lovely lady hump is painted in black spandex with a teal Nike sports bra (girl or gay), you are woefully under-dressed. Workout attire is a fashion statement in itself and let me tell you, these girls treat their treadmill like their own Victoria Secret fashion show. Congratulations girls, you haven’t been pregnant yet. Thank you for showing me.

Now that you have squeezed your muffin top into a hot pink and black Adidas running outfit, what do you do now? You have two options.

First, you could get on a machine. If you are painfully awkward like myself, this is your best option because it assures that you don’t have to speak to anyone for at least a half-hour. Reading material may present a problem, but do not be alarmed. It took me a while to figure out that NOBODY judges you if you pull out an US Weekly. If someone is reading The Economist or Wine Spectator on a treadmill, that is their problem. They can answer to Satan at hell’s door for being such a douche. I can read about the currency crisis in Zimbabwe some other time. Now is the time to find out how Brangelina is handing the midnight text messages from a pregnant Jennifer Aniston.

 

Your second option is taking a group exercise class. For the love, please take this advice: DO NOT TAKE YOGA. It is a waste of your time as your entire workout is ruined by a) attempting to stay awake in a dark room with Enya music playing, or b) clenching your butt cheeks together trying desperately not to break wind in the face of the Anthropology professor next to you.

You could take an aerobics class. (Please Note: If you are male, do not do this. Go grunt away at the weights with the rest of the ‘roid ragers.) For females, this is an acceptable option and you can be assured of maximum confidence building as you surrounded by suburban moms with 1994 hairstyles and T-shirts down to their knees. With company such as this, you are Homecoming Queen.

However, do not be shocked if the aerobics instructor only speaks to you in the lyrics of the songs playing. That is how they connect with and encourage you, while you desperately try to dance like Beyonce.

“Really,Trisha? You REALLY think I am bringing sexy back? Why thank you! I thought this sweat soaked shirt and my dry heaving in the corner was not sexy at all!”

“Holly, how kind of you to say! When I tripped earlier and fell, I didn’t realize that it was G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S.”


With all these mind games, I sometimes just want to straight up leave the gym-sports-club-whatever and sit in front of my TV and watch E!News with a jar of peanut butter.

But who am I kidding? Once my Old Navy jeans are the only ones that fit anymore, I’ll be begging for them to take me back.

Love Always,

Abby

Monday, January 18, 2010

Photograph: The Translation

Look, I think we all understand that its not only rappers who have a hard time articulating the true message of their songs. It can happen to anyone! Especially people with crap voices. Because then, not only do you struggle to understand what the words means, you also have no idea what the word is in the first place! So, in an effort to help out Nickelback spread their message further and to aid you, dear reader, in your pursuit of high culture and sophistication, I present you with “Photograph: The Translation and Commentary”. But first, a picture of the band:

Looking good, boys.


"Photograph"

Look at this photograph

Everytime I do it makes me laugh

How did our eyes get so red

And what the hell is on Joey's head

Look at this snapshot.

Whenever I see it, I have to laugh

Because clearly we were high

And that’s funny, right?

Look at Joey! What a beautiful broseph name!

He is high and so putting that bag on his head seems witty.

Now, I just laugh at his expense.


And this is where I grew up

I think the present owner fixed it up

I never knew we'd ever went without

The second floor is hard for sneaking out

This is where I was raised to be a bro

It’s amazing what a steady income will do to a crap house like this

I didn’t get the truck I wanted right away. Also, food.

I snuck out as a youth. Isn’t that just so classic?

Ah wasted youth!


And this is where I went to school

Most of the time had better things to do

Criminal record says I broke in twice

I must have done it half a dozen times

This is where I was educated

However, I usually didn’t go when school was in session

Once it was locked, however, I was more than willing to go there.

When I say criminal record, I think we all know I mean badass record.

And that badass record doesn’t even do justice to what kind of BA I really am.


I wonder if it's too late

Should i go back and try to graduate

Life's better now than it was back then

If I was them I wouldn't let me in

Because I was so talented, I didn’t bother graduating from high school.

I wonder if I should try now.

I liked Billy Madison. Maybe it’s like that!

However, I am one fourth of a wildly popular bro band so I probably shouldn’t re-enter highschool.

Besides, I’m so BA the school probably couldn’t handle me.

I mean, I couldn’t handle me if I wasn’t me.

Try that on for size.


Oh, oh, oh

Oh, god, I

If I hadn’t done so many drugs, I might be able to complete my sentences.

I might be…


Every memory of looking out the back door

I had the photo album spread out on my bedroom floor

It's hard to say it, time to say it

Goodbye, goodbye.

Every memory of walking out the front door

I found the photo of the friend that I was looking for

It's hard to say it, time to say it

Goodbye, goodbye.

I remember looking out the backdoor? I think?

Like a mom who scrapbooks, I have photo albums all over my pure gold floor

It’s hard to say this because really, reliving my BA years as an up and coming broseph

was so beautiful but

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

I also have memories of walking out my front door? I think?

Ah! Here is picture of Joey!

I’m just going to tuck that under my pillow…

I must say it,

Goodbye

Goodbye


Remember the old arcade

Blew every dollar that we ever made

The cops hated us hangin' out

They say somebody went and burned it down

You might be wondered how I honed my incredible talent

Here is a picture of an arcade

I was irresponsible with money, even as a young boy.

Isn’t that hilarious?

Also, police officers didn’t like me being there

Because I was such a BA

Even as a youth.

Someone burned down that arcade.

Because my entire city is BA.


We used to listen to the radio

And sing along with every song we know

We said someday we'd find out how it feels

To sing to more than just the steering wheel

This might be hard to imagine for you, but I used to listen to the radio.

That’s how real I was.

I also knew the words to some songs.

Which is why I think I have perfect pitch.

My friends and I would always talk about how it would feel

To sing to other people.

Subject them to the torture of my stupid voice.

I am an idiot.


Kim's the first girl I kissed

I was so nervous that I nearly missed

She's had a couple of kids since then

I haven't seen her since god knows when

The first girl I ever kissed was named Kim

Classic brosephina name.

I was so nervous, and high, that I almost kissed Joey who was right next to her.

How gross would that have been?

I would not have enjoyed that…

Kim got married to a guy who owns a motorcycle store.

She also gave birth to two kids with names like Devon and Addison

I haven’t seen her in a while because I’m way too BA for her


Oh, oh, oh

Oh, god, I

I have no idea.


I miss that town

I miss the faces

You can't erase

You can't replace it

I miss it now

I can't believe it

So hard to stay

Too hard to leave it

I can’t make decisions. Also, I don’t understand that you can have memories and that doesn’t mean you have to live in your same town.


If I could I relive those days

I know the one thing that would never change

I would still be brosephs with Joey. No homo.


Every memory of looking out the back door

I had the photo album spread out on my bedroom floor

It's hard to say it, time to say it

Goodbye, goodbye.

Every memory of walking out the front door

I found the photo of the friend that I was looking for

It's hard to say it, time to say it

Goodbye, goodbye.

Look at this photograph

Everytime I do it makes me laugh

Everytime I do it makes me...


You’re wondering what I was going to say.

But wonder on, wonderer, because I am THAT BA.

FINIS

Monday, January 11, 2010

Optimist says: At least I'm not dead.

Look, I try to be a good person. I don’t get into bar fights. I don’t sell drugs to babies. I don’t drive an ice cream truck and I always try to return phone calls and stop at red lights. That is some kind of quality humanity, if you ask me. I mean, it’s true that sometimes I check myself out in the rearview mirror while I’m driving. On the freeway. And I’ve never seen an episode of Seinfeld. And I know the words to some Creed songs. But I don’t think that qualifies me for the kind of evil the universe has been serving me as of late.

It all started on an unsuspecting Monday morning when I, a bright-eyed youth, was filling up my sweet ride with gas. The little screen asked me a seemingly simple question: CAR WASH? I paused. Looked at my car and thought (like an idiot) why not? So I said to the little machine, “why yes! I would like a car wash!" (Note: I don’t usually talk to machinery. Wait, yes I do).

Now, you need to know something: I had just cleaned the inside of my car. I got out all the clutter, threw away the things I didn’t need and had generally revamped the interior of my car. I was feeling good. I was feeling in control of my life because my car was so clean and isn’t that the ideal way to measure the worth of your existence? Well, it is for me. And honey, I was golden.

So there I am, improving on my car even more when the unthinkable happened: the car wash started.

Now normally, this isn’t a problem.

But there was nothing normal about this day.

Because this day, I had left open my sunroof.

It wasn’t entirely open, but it was open enough to turn my car into a prison. A prison with no hope of escape.

Or survival.

I didn’t realize my misfortune until water started to pour on me from above. Then it was all screaming and swearing like a bunch of pirates getting held up in the back alley in the shady part of a seaside village. I tried to help the situation by pushing the button to close the sunroof but, in my superior genius that you are no doubt already well aware of, I opened the roof even more. At this point there was water pooling on the seats and my clothes were covered that soapy poison. I finally got it closed enough and then it was over as quickly as it had began. As if nothing had happened. I would have thought it a bad dream if there hadn’t been water everywhere. And let me tell you, there was water. And it was everywhere.


So, Universe, let me ask you one question: who do you think you are? I’m a good person! If I made any money, you better believe I would be paying my taxes like a champion. I drink tea regularly and have even tried to keep a plant alive! And I’ve only killed a pet on purpose once! One time! And that was because that fish was pure evil. I was really doing you a favor on that one, Universe. And how to you repay me? Did you think it was funny, seeing me get all those paper towels at the gas station to dry my seat? Did you love the sweet irony of my sun-roof having to be completely open for the rest of the day so my car could dry out? Did you sit out there amongst the stars and laugh? I bet your laugh sounds false and ignoble. I really bet it does. Well guess what I’m going to do? I’m going to go listen to some Creed and sing along. Loudly. And I hope you hate it.

Monday, January 4, 2010

On the 10

The other day I ditched my family and went to Cabazon Premium Outlets all by myself. Loner? Hardly. Fabulous? Absolutely! I mean, you have to be serious about the art of shopping to drive an hour in the pouring rain halfway to Indio to go shopping at an outlet mall all by yourself. It also helped that I am trying to assert my independence. Because I am a grown up and no, mom, I don’t know what time I will be home. Yes, mom, I will try to be home for dinner. Yes, just try. Well, I’m not going to promise. Because I am a grown up. Frick.

On my way home from shopping and buying some phenomenal things, like jeans, I enjoyed my drive home because billboards lining freeways used primarily by truckers are fantastic. I mean, sure you have your fair share of “gentleman’s clubs” where men can stop their trucks and, to quote my favorite icon Elizabeth Lemon of 30 Rock, “let’s go watch some mothers and daughters!”. But you also have some $2.99 breakfast deals at places called “Three Sisters” and pictures of huge hamburgers with little phrases underneath petitioning, “can you taste it?”. No, I can’t. Because this is a billboard.

But besides that, I had the opportunity to see all sorts of things that brought down that proverbial “memory lane”. For example, I drove around a certain bend where I have a distinct memory of my dad taking me to a regional spelling bee when I was in second grade. I wasn’t technically in the spelling bee. I was runner-up in my school’s competition but I had to be at this event because the girl who was competing was straight up crazy and couldn’t be trusted to handle the pressure of something as epic as a regional spelling bee. However, she did compete, and rather pathetically too, if I may be so bold. But, I guess she was allowed to compete because it was me who lost my school’s bee by misspelling Wedneasday. I mean, Weddnesdae. Wed…nes…day.

At one point in my drive home, I saw a sign for Oak Glen and that reminded me of one of my favorite memories of my mom.

One thing you have to know about my mom is that before she married my dad and became a mother, she was a historian. Or a teacher. A history teacher? Well, that’s not important (as are all facts and truths about mothers before you were born). All I care about is that her womb was hospitable enough for me to come around. The point is that my mom loves history. So it was no surprise that she was super excited to find out that Riley’s Farm in Oak Glen was having a Civil War re-enactment. As a pre-pubescent girl who was still into American Girl Dolls, I was her only kid willing to do that kind of thing so off she and I went to watch some people shoot each other with blanks in period clothing. It actually ended up being closely related to a good time. Apparently there is a whole sub-culture of people who spend their lives in tents, in period clothing, making bread the hard way (i.e.: not at the store) and knitting around a fire while normal people come and watch them. Well, that’s the women at least. The men also live in tents, dress in period clothing, eat meat cooked over a fire in tin pans, take care of horses and then shoot each other with blanks. Oh, that’s the life! (?) I guess the only thing that would be appealing about that lifestyle is that you don’t have to work. Although I think these people might have normal jobs and just do this on the weekends. So really, there is nothing appealing about this life.

But I did enjoy going with my mom. I mean, I was one of six kids and my mom and I were hanging out all day at a place where people were knitting by fires just like my American Girl Dolls. The best part of the day, at least from my more grown-up perspective, came during the battle re-enactment. Since this was the Civil War, (not the Revolutionary War! Don’t be a fool!) the two groups of people were divided between blue coats and grey coats. I don’t know who chooses to live in a tent on the weekends and then volunteers to be on the decidedly asinine pro-slavery group. I mean, not only was this group all for the enslavement of an entire people group for their own selfish gains but they also lost. How is that appealing, 20th century mail-carrier by week, re-enactor by weekend? But someone has to do it (note: this is reasoning that leads bright and eager children to become cremators). During the battle scene, which we as the audience watched from a safe distance behind a fence at the bottom of the hill, the blanks would fire and pre-determined soldiers would fall to their quiet, somber deaths. It was at this point that my mother, ever the educator, leaned over and quietly said in my ear, “It would never be this quiet in a real battle. Those men who just got shot would be screaming and there would blood. A lot of blood”. She then stood back up and resumed watching the re-enactment. I, too, turned back to the battle and tried to picture what the actual battle would be like. After a moment of imaging the last man who fell to be laying on the ground crying for his mother, I was glad that these re-enactors had chosen the more palatable route of a silent, and peaceful, battle scene. Because, as everyone knows, after the battle all the men lying in the field would stand up, brush off their coats, and join their wives at the costume ball in the big white house.