I'm Sorry, I Have A Cold

From Wikipedia: Monty Python

I recently participated in some lame growing-older lady activities, namely looking at antique shops and perusing places that specialize in tea blends.

I realize this puts me just a few steps away from wearing shawls and acquiring multiple cats. I've accepted that.

Anyway, at one shop the elderly woman manning the counter was big on small-talk. After the obligatory mentions of weather and gardening (ah, yes, gardening. It's official: shawls and cats are in my immediate future), our attentions were turned to a noise just outside the store.

There was cheering, chanting, and eventually, a glimpse of what was causing all the fuss (fuss! An old lady term! I should just start stocking up on Fancy Feast now.): some guys were trotting along the sidewalk; not quite goose-stepping, not quite Ukrainian dancing, but doing something confusingly in between. (If I was being literal, I guess that would make what they were doing ... Polish?) It was clearly some kind of stunt brought on by Frosh Week. I deduced this not from a Sherlock Holmesian brilliance, but from the fact they were all wearing T-shirts that had "FROSH 13" written across them. Indubitably.

"Wow," I said to the shopkeeper. "Reminds me of the Ministry of Silly Walks."

She blinked.

"From Monty Python. You know. That sketch," I smiled.

"Oh! Now, there's a name I haven't heard in a while. What else did they do, again?" she asked, keenly.

And then my brain betrayed me, as it always fucking does.

SIT ON MY FACE, AND TELL ME THAT YOU LOVE ME...

"Ughh," I stammered ....

I'LL SIT ON YOUR FACE, AND TELL YOU I LOVE YOU, TOO ....

"Well, they did the one about ..."

I LOVE TO HEAR YOU ORALIZE WHEN I'M BETWEEN YOUR THIGHS...

"... well, wow, they had so many sketches. And movies. It's hard to pick just one ..."

LIFE CAN BE FINE IF WE BOTH SIXTY-NINE ....

"They're a funny group from Britain, right?" she said. "I just love British humour! It's so clever. So witty!"

And - finally - a different sketch (something completely different, if you will) came to me.

"I fart in your general direction!" I screamed in her face.

"Oh, yes, right," she politely replied, having no idea what I was talking about.

I really shouldn't ever leave my home.

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Yeah, I've Still Got It

Source: TheStar.com

This morning when I was taking the crowded subway to work, I noticed in my peripheral that there was a man sitting across from where I was standing who was slowly checking me out.

From the corner of my eye I could see that he was starting at my face, was making his way slowly down my bod, down my legs, all the way to my ankles and then back up again. He didn't seem to care about how obvious he was.

It was a little boost of self-esteem, and I found myself casually trying to stand a little straighter as I oh-so-gently ran my fingers in my hair.

And then I decided to glance directly at him.

It turned out that he was asleep and was merely bobbing his head.

Yeaaaah, me.

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Happy Secretary's Day! How's Your Vag?

Care for a side of horrifying along with your morning coffee? Yes?! Your non-wish is my command.

When you were preparing for your career, what kind of advice did you get? Take some courses? Dress for the job you want, not the one you have? Learn Photoshop already and stop depending on MS Paint to relay all your visual thoughts?

Well, if it was 1959 and you were a secretary (that's old timey for "Administrative Professional") and were reading the career advice book, The Executive Secretary by Marilyn C. Burke, you'd learn that you could gain an important professional advantage by keeping the lady bits in check.

I shit you not:

"Now that we are smartly dressed, our hair and nails well-groomed, and our faces at their best, we can ruin the entire effect in ways that even our "best friend won't tell us about" ... perspiration odor, unpleasant breath, or the telltale scent of carelessness about our feminine hygiene. So many of us are careless about unpleasant odors about our persons. We have a tendency to feel that "if I can't smell it, it isn't there." Unfortunately, unpleasant body and breath odors are like an unfaithful mate - the possessor thereof is quite frequently the last to know!"

 ...

"Women must be even more careful about the unpleasant and very obvious odors that may accompany "that time of the month." A frequent changing of sanitary napkins and the use of any of the deodorant powders that are available for the express purpose will do away with any chance of offending during this period of the month."

Luckily for secretaries concerned about "feminine daintiness", help is around the corner - one need only ask the building's janitor for a helping hand.

Amazing.

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Somedays, I Feel A Real Kinship With Homer Simpson

Today I was working on the computer when I happened to look down and notice something on my thumb.

I freaked.

There on my thumbnail was a thick, bumpy, white-ish, yellow-ish, gnarled-looking growth. It was disgusting and surely fungal or viral and undoubtedly aggressive as I didn't think it had been there the day before.

I was afraid to touch it and somehow spread what was happening, so gingerly covered the gross appendage with a Kleenex and went to everyone's favourite alarmist website, Web MD:

Ugh. Fungi. Viruses. Warts. Cysts. The barfy possibilities were endless.

I unwrapped my thumb to get a closer look. It had all the symptoms of all of the things Web MD had listed. Oh, how humiliating. I kept thinking about the meeting I have to go to tomorrow and whether I could get away with wrapping the thumbnail in a band-aid and tell some elaborate story about how I nearly cut my thumb off cooking dinner. There was no way I was going to parade its sickly hideousness out in public.

I wondered if the nail bed underneath it had already died or if there was a chance of saving it. Carefully, I took a pair of tweezers and ever-so-cautiously picked at the gnarled bark covering my nail. It lifted easily and exposed a perfectly healthy, normal patch of thumbnail. And then the part that I lifted flaked off.

I yelped. And then I bravely inspected it closer.

And that's when I realized it.

It was melted cheese.

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Polite Society

Anytime I see something searingly embarrassing, I like to think about the events that lead up to it. Like, if you're a white 40-something woman from the south and "hip hop is who you are", there's a very good chance that you told your friends you were going to make a hip hop instructional video. And there's a very good chance that they had an opportunity to be honest with you about what a horrible idea it was. And when you explain your vision to the camera crew that you hire, they also have an opportunity to tell you it's the worst thing they've ever heard.

But when someone has a dream (or are paying you), we're often too polite to be honest about what will surely be a disaster, ripe for mass mocking. And this is the result of surrounding yourself with people who can't be straight with you:



Props to Tiffany for finding this video!

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Random Randomyness Brought To You By Blackberry

I have an app on my Blackberry that loads up a new background image every few hours. It was free and I didn't have anything I specifically wanted to use as my phone's wallpaper, so why not, right?

Famous last words.

This app has been a source of embarrassment and confusion for myself and anyone who looks at my Blackberry. I'll get the occasional sunset or flower or puppy or whatever sort-of-normal image. Every so often they'll be things like sports logos, bands and movie posters that aren't really my thing, but whatever. Truly unexpected stuff would sometimes come on that I'd do a double-take on: A Tickle-Me Elmo with a rather rude thought-bubble (guess what he wanted you to tickle?). A Sears portrait of a totally random Chinese family. A picture of an open, clean diaper. Those were always a surprise.

I thought the worst moments were when I'd get something from a collection I call "Wallpaper Intended For 17-Year Old Boys." Chicks in bikinis. Girls splayed out over cars. Blonds licking lollipops. Because that doesn't send out a mixed message about me when I'm out with friends or anything. I thought that was the worst of it. I thought wrong:

That is Steve Martin at the beach.

WTF.

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Late Night Eats

Yesterday after a day of sitting around in my pajamas playing Angry Birds freelance work I went out with a New! Friend! for a few drinks at the neighbourhood bar. It turns out that we are both fans of gin. Big fans of gin. So, what exactly do two girls who are just getting to know each other talk about while consuming several martinis on empty stomachs? This stuff, in this order:

• Weather
• Work
• Travel
• Writing and publishing
• Television shows
• The awesomeness of Community
• The awesomeness of gin
• Attempts to eat vegan
• DON'T YOU JUST LOVE BACON?
• Annoying Twitterati
• Hatred of the word "Twitterati"
• "I'm up for another if you are!"
• Shakespeare Which cast member of Jersey Shore is the best
• The revolution in Egypt What race Pauly D looks like in person (Answer: Indian. I saw him in Las Vegas and couldn't get over his skin colour. The guy could easily be cast in Slumdog Millionaire II: Wheel of Fortune.)
• The environment OMG WHY ARE SAMMI AND RONNIE STILL TOGETHER?! (followed by texting and Twitter updates to find out what happened on last night's episode)
• .... and it went downhill from there, culturally and intellectually, but uphill in fun 

Eventually she caught the streetcar to her hood but instead of going home, I opted to turn around and go to the nearby Metro to participate in one of my favourite things, drunk grocery shopping.

"Oh, great!" said the Metro staff.

One thing my lubricated self really wanted was grocery store sushi. To the connoisseur of Japanese cuisine, the spicy salmon rolls I picked up were the equivalent of eating Fun Dip and calling it trifle. But as you can imagine, I was not feeling too picky in that moment. I purchased it successfully (a small feat) and inhaled it at home moments later. I fell asleep a happy girl.

This morning I looked at the grocery bag from last night and couldn't help but be slightly amused by the remaining contents.

Hmm. A bag or organic lemons and some organic broccoli. Ok - an admittedly odd selection of impulse buys - but overall, kind of smart in the healthy, attempting-to-eat-vegan kind of way.

And then I looked at the rest of the bag.

Oh.

I'm not sure which is least likely to qualify as an actual food item - the can of Chef Boyardee ravioli or the rainbow sprinkles. And an even scarier question to ponder - did I think I was going to eat those things together? Oh, I am a sick, sick drunk.

Anyone else want to be my new friend? I'm clearly quite sane.

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New Year, New Humiliations

Hi everyone! How's 2011 treating you so far?

Our New Year's trip to Las Vegas was all kinds of giddy fun - but we predictably did not come home millionaires. I could pretend we did, but then this blog would look like the last season of Roseanne, and we all know how crappy that was.

Instead, I had a lineup of work waiting for me, including a meeting with a client on Bay Street (Canada's version of Wall Street). I bring this detail up, only because in the humiliation I'm about to relay, you'll gain a greater understanding for the environment I was in - one of suits and money and people who undoubtedly think they are better than me.

Upon returning from vacation, the laundry situation in our home was looking grim - which resulted in me opening up a new pack of pantyhose to wear for the meeting. This was a pair that I had received in a gift bag at some random event - so they weren't my usual, trusted brand of super control-top sausage casings. In fact, this style of pantyhose bragged about being totally opposite to my usuals - these were seamless. I put them on, they fit and off I went to walk to the meeting.

MISTAKE.

As I now realize, seamless means zero control. Seamless means no holdy-uppy elastic. Seamless means disaster. As I was heading toward the office, I could feel the sickening sensation of pantyhose shimmying down my body. I grabbed hold of the southbound waistband (through my dress) just before the hose could slide over the hump of my bum. I had to get myself to a washroom - stat. I'm sure I looked like a lunatic - taking tiny quick steps, keeping my body as stiff as possible, creepily smiling to fake to the world that everything was alright, while tightfistedly clutching my dress at the hip. I probably looked like Pee Wee Herman on the verge of drawing a gun.

Once in the restaurant bathroom, I yanked the hose up as high as they would go. I contemplated removing them all together but black hose with the dress sort of pulled the outfit together - plus my legs were in need of a trim shave and it was below zero, so walking around bare-legged would be completely bizarre and far too casual a look for this meeting.

The hose miraculously stayed up as I got to the client's office. He suggested we continue the meeting at a nearby coffee spot - so off we went again. Slight clutching was necessary, but I thankfully made it there intact.

Meeting complete, I walked with my client back toward his office as we chatted about a few last minute details of the project. And then it happened ... my pantyhose started sprinting down my body as if it was a fugitive and my ankles were the Mexican border. I tried to discreetly catch the waistband but missed and couldn't do anything but keep walking with my client and pray that the downward shuffling would stop. I could feel that the pantyhose had made its way past my butt and was now truckin' down my thighs. I started sweating and locked my knees together as we walked. I have absolutely no idea what my client said during those few steps because all that was going through my head was, "Please, please, please, please let this not be happening to me!!!" I pressed my arm against my body, hoping to clamp the tights while putting my purse in front of me, dangling it at the level of my dress's hemline to disguise the possible emergence of my hose. The wind blew a little and I could feel the cold flash of air on my previously hosed thighs. Nooooooo! I could feel the pantyhose starting to bunch just above my knees. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

This is Bay Street, the scene of the crime.
Image Source: ElliDavis.com

"Well, here's my stop, looking forward to working with you on this!" my client said. We shook hands and he walked into the building. It didn't seem like he had noticed my crazed, sweaty disposition or the pantyhose - although it's for certain that other people did. When my client was out of view, I moved my purse aside and looked down to survey the damage. My pantyhose has fallen to the bottom of my knees. My dress length? Just above the knee. There, on the busy sidewalk in the financial district among all the suits and money and decision makers, I was standing there with my hoses's gusset in plain view (that's a random pic from the net - it's not of me). If you had been walking or standing behind me where my purse could do no hiding, you surely saw all this and wondered if I was an idiot, really eager to use the washroom or a pervert.

Horrified and yet relieved to have not been literally caught with my pants down by the client, I dashed toward a nearby building column for a bit of shelter (although not much - I was still very much in plain sight of the world), tossed off my shoes, tore off my pantyhose and stuffed them into my purse. It's not everyday that a woman starts stripping on the sidewalk, so, yes, people were looking, no, I didn't give a damn, and no, I will never wear seamless panythose ever again. They are so effing dead to me.

"Uh, Jen?" a voice said.

I almost vomited from shock and embarrassment.

It wasn't the client whom I had just been with, but someone else I had met in a business setting the month before. As my luck would have it, as I turned to face him, I still hadn't yet put my shoes back on. Nothing says HIRE ME, I'M A PROFESSIONAL like taking off your undergarments and standing around barefoot, publicly, downtown, in the winter.

"Oh, hi!" I said, as if nothing completely insane was happening.

"Umm ...Do you need some help?" he asked, now obviously looking at my feet.

"Oh, I, uh, just had something in my shoe," I said, red-faced. He had clearly seen me rip my hose off - something that isn't exactly the standard thing to do when one claims to be getting a pebble out of her shoe. And even if he hadn't seen me tear off my tights - and he had - what's the explanation for having BOTH shoes off? I believe the answer is this: She's crazy.

"Oh ... ok, then. Uh, Happy New Year," he said and then went on his way.

"Sure thing, same to you!" I said as I put on my shoes and stuffed a dangling leg of the pantyhose deep into my purse.

Cringe x 10000000000. Just a wild guess, but I'm pretty sure that if that guy requires writing and marketing services, he won't be calling me up. In fact, he's probably warning people about me now. UUUUGGGGHHHHH.

Image Source: Digital Daily

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Awesome. Totally. Totally. Awesome.

Nerdly Childhood Confession: I was always scared to touch my Jabba the Hut action figure (er, rather inaction figure - you really couldn't do much with him) because I kept psyching myself out into thinking he was actually a blob of diarrhea. I'd even put my hand in my sleeve and use my shirt to pick him up, fearful of getting Jabba poop on my skin. I did the same thing with those dung-like plastic Glo Worms, too. Oh, nerdly, crazy, baby Jen.

I was reminded of this memory by an amazingly fun video by Patrick Boivin. Even though I am a Star Trek girl at heart and will forever pray to the temple of Spock, I have to bow down to his "AT-AT Day Afternoon":

AT-AT day afternoon from Patrick Boivin on Vimeo.

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Overheard While Cleaning the Open Street-Facing Window

I shit you not ...

Bay Street A-Hole: Hey, look, you can see those people's cleaning lady.

Other Guy: We've been thinking of getting one.

Bay Street A-Hole: If you spoke Spanish or Portuguese or some shit you could just ask Louisa Consuela Margarita over there what her schedule's like.

Both: *laugh* *laugh* *laugh*

(and, yes, they were referring to me.)

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Manic-cure

This weekend I decided to bite the bullet and get my ragged nails taken care of. Here's the exchange when I showed up to my neighbourhood beauty parlour:

Me: Hi, I was wondering if I could get an appointment for this afternoon.

Receptionist: Sure ... *looks at her computer for an opening, then looks back up at me* For an eyebrow wax?

Heh... Normally I would have saved us both the embarrassment and been like, "Yes. Also a manicure" but I hadn't done my mental preparation exercises that usually accompany any ripping-of-hair-out-my-skin event. So it was just the mani with a side of awkwardness:
Rest assured, I don't have jaundice - it's just the weird lighting. I can't, however, explain how my thumb suddenly became obese for this picture.

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Barf Central

The other day I had a meeting downtown and figured I would dig out one of my "business" purses from the closet. It's this huge awesome black purse that can hold a laptop and oh-so-much more.

Anyway, I get to my meeting and the person I'm scheduled to chat with is running a few minutes behind. As I had a bit of alone time in the boardroom, I figured I could discreetly organize a couple things in my purse. No, I did not tip it over and dump the contents out on the table ... I'm not that idiotic! I just looked into it and shuffled a few things here and there. Then I came across a part of the purse that I almost never use - it's a section that has a separate zipper to keep it closed and it was partially unzipped when I found it that morning and didn't think anything of it.

So I unzipped it, looked in and gasped.

Just then, I saw the girl I was meeting coming over, so I placed my purse down and attempted to act all natural-like for the next hour.

What was in my purse, dear reader asks?

Oh, nothing. JUST A DEAD BABY MOUSE.

If I get any jobs from the girl I met, it is because I am a magician / Jedi who cast a spell on her that said "IGNORE THE CRAZY LOOK ON MY FACE. HIRE ME FOR THINGS. I'm NOT looking at my purse every five minutes, I am actually coming up with GENIUS CONVERSATION POINTS and am SIMPLY GLANCING AT THE GROUND AS I DO THIS." The entire time I was talking to her, I kept imagining a zombie mouse climbing out of my pseudo-briefcase and attacking the both of us.

I am not cut out for life. Nor was the baby mouse, apparently.

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If I Owned A House, Less People Would Know I'm An Idiot (Maybe)

After receiving a noise complaint from one of my neighbours, my condo's security just came by to remind me that construction in my suite is limited between 9am and 5pm.

I was too embarrassed to admit what I had really just been doing ...

.
.
.
.
.


I was trying to open a coconut.



(and it STILL isn't open.)

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Teen Dork Attempts To Be Polite

I had forgotten about this story until recently - and since there's nothing post-worthy going on with me right now, I figured I'd share it.

When I was in university, my parents moved out of my childhood home and into a house a few blocks away. My parents quickly became friendly with their new neighbours, so by the time I came back to Fort McMurray for the summer, most of the people in the cove were aware of "Joe and Marie's oldest daughter." It turns out that there were a few who were eager to have a young adult around that could be available for dog-sitting, baby-sitting, house-sitting, etc. and I was pretty happy to oblige.

I've always considered myself a fairly polite person, so when one of the neighbours saw me out in the front lawn and came over to chat, my mind quickly raced to remember what his name was. It came to me just in time - Mr. Cox! Boom. Perfect.

So as we chatted (about dog-sitting, it turns out), I was soo smug with myself and my uber politeness. "Sure thing, Mr. Cox!" I'd say. Or "Mr. Cox, would you prefer to give me the key before you leave?"

Throughout the conversation, he'd pause and look at me a little odd and I took it that either HE was a funny little man or that he just wasn't used to chatting with SUCH A POLITE 19-year old. Seriously. That's how awesome I thought I was.

So, once the dog-sitting arrangements were agreed upon, I went inside to let my parents know I'd be helping their neighbour, Mr .... I stopped dead in my tracks.

The hot flush of embarrassed horror rushed through me.

His name was not Mr. Cox.

It was Mr. Dickson.

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Confessions of a Dork V. 2

I said there would be more and there is! I am positively FILLED with horrible, true stories about moi. Seriously. If I ever wrote an autobiography, it would be called "Cringe: The Life and Times of The All-Too-Honest Jen Byck."

And yes, I've repeated the image (of me!) I used from my first "Confessions of a Dork." It's just too suitable not to use again.

So, let's get to it, shall we?

1. I have canceled not one, but TWO separate dentist appointments because of my embarrassment over the fact that the roof of my mouth was burned from eating hot pizza too quickly.

2. Whenever I wake up after a morning of 'happy drinking', I discover that at least FOUR tabs of my open browser have this video marked as 'played'. Apparently, I can't help but privately 'dance' to this (at least four times) when hammered.

3. In Grade 10, I won a provincial award for a short children's story I wrote. The truth is, I had stolen the premise of my story from an episode of The Smurfs. At the time, I was utterfly TERRIFIED of being caught.

4. I find this sexy. And have since forever. THE WHOLE DANG BRUCEY THING.

5. In Grade 7, I decided to burn all my arm hair off with Nair. One of my proudest days as a tween was when a boy in class proclaimed "Let's see Squatchie!" [Ed Note: 'Squatchie' was slang for 'Sasquatch' - my !ADORABLE! Jr. High nickname] and pulled my sleeve up ... only to dumb-foundedly find no hair at all. I then strutted around the room and proclaimed "Boys, Squatchie has left the building." And then sashayed to the girl's bathroom to hide until class was done. [Ed note, again: I said this without knowing, whatsoever, who " ... has left the building" was originally referring to.]

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Confessions of a Dork

A friend of mine mentioned that she was feeling like a bit of a jackass for something she did recently. It was truly nothing and she shouldn't give it another moment's thought. I've done way, way worse and some illustrations of this have already been mentioned on this site. The "Humiliation 101" tag can conveniently link you to some of my published moments of shame.

But it doesn't stop there. My life has been simply riddled with glorious examples of how uncouth and uncool I can be, and it started at an early age.

So, if you're ever down about something dumb you did, just take a gander at this small selection of personal low-lights. You should feel much better and smarter about yourself instantly:

1. Until Grade 10, I thought the song "Bette Davis Eyes" was sung by Rod Stewart. (C'mon, close your eyes and imagine it - I wasn't THAT crazy to think this!)

2. When I got my very first period, I thought that I had cut myself with the toilet paper.

3. At one point or another, I've had a crush on the following super cool objects of desire: Gilligan, Paul Pfeiffer, Gilbert Blithe, and Data, the android from Star Trek Next Generation.

4. For a very long time, I thought Jimmy Buffet and Warren Buffet were the same person. I'd be out somewhere with friends and Margaritaville would play and I'd say, "Isn't crazy that THIS GUY ended up being, like, insanely rich?" And my friend would stare at me confused. And then I'd say "Geez, don't you read the papers? He's heavy into investments!"

5. My first semi-serious-ish boyfriend only asked me out after he had already asked out two different girls. That day. And had been rejected. And I enthusiastically said yes. BECAUSE. HAVING. A. BOYFRIEND. WAS. IMPORTANT.

Expect more of these in the future!

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I Am An Expert In Embarrassing Myself

This morning as I was getting ready for my day, I swung by the Wii Fit to do my daily Body Test (ie: weigh myself). As I was in no rush, I decided to goof around with it for a bit and started playing a few games, namely Hula Hoop.

For those not familiar with Wii Fit's Hula Hoop, you basically have to stand on a board and rotate your pelvis around to simulate hula-hooping. There's no way to not look like a moron while doing this.

Wii's demo of the game is below:


The person in that clip isn't trying really hard, I have to say. I'm rather competitive against myself, so I'm always trying to beat my high score - which means doing it really fast and getting my whole body involved to get more spins in.

So, yah, I'm having at 'er when I heard this huge, sudden BANG - like, right next to me. It surprised me so much that I even yelped (I don't know about you, but I'm not the type of person that audibly talks to herself, so I find it really weird and rare and noticeable when I make a noise when I'm by myself). Anyway, even though I closed our vertical blinds, I can still see quite clearly that there's a window washer about four feet away from me. And since he's essentially pressed up against the glass, he can totally see through the 'blind slits' at me.

But the worst part, was that this was all I was wearing at the time:



Nude Spanx pantyhose things.

And that's it.

No pants. No top. No bra. No dignity. All while feverishly gyrating my gut around.

HORRIFYING.

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Starbucks Melts My Brain

I'm not really a huge Starbucks person, and that really shined through when I went to order a drink from them today.

Combine the distraction of the nattering Bluetoothed folk around me and my desire to try something fancy and new (to me), the "Tazo Chai Tea Latte" I intended to ask for came out as a "Tazzered Late Chattie-o."

That's verbatim. Sigh - I am such a tourist.

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I Really Should Stop Talking To Strangers

Today on the subway, a very frazzled-looking woman boarded with a large cardboard banker's box that had a couple little holes punched into it randomly. I guess this woman was rather distracted this evening, because she apparently forgot about this little thing called inertia. As the subway lurched, so did she and so did her box, right out of her hands.

The box hit the ground hard, the woman yelped and snatched it up quickly, looking quite distraught.

Girl next to me, talking to her friend: OMG, it would be so horrible if there was a puppy in that box.

Me: But if it was a cat - that would be AWESOME. [Note: Not being sarcastic]

Girl & Friend: *Stoney silence and look of disgust on their faces.*

Me: Ahh ... hehe. *Getting off subway one stop early to flee situation.*

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Well, That Was Super Fun...

A few weeks ago, Jacquelyn and I giddily signed up to spend a Saturday afternoon getting some exercise, possibly learning some moves to show the boys back home and having a bit of a laugh. What we signed up for was Pole & Strip class. What we got were bruises - mainly to our egos.

The class was yesterday and was supposed to be a beginner class filled with women "of all sizes, ages and fitness levels". Instead, it was a room full of size 4's who took to the moves and pole swinging like K-Fed takes to a bag of Cheetos. The same could not be said of me to say the least.

Without question, I was the largest person there. Well, I had the biggest bottom-half anyway (very mirrored rooms allow one to analyze herself and realize how grossly out of proportion her top half is to her bottom half). Yayyyy.

Vanity issues aside, this class was hardly beginner. The first (and "easiest") move we were taught involved us grabbing the pole from as high as we could and twirling around with our ankles crossed and gracefully propelling ourselves around and around. The girls in the class mastered this within a couple endearingly cute tries. I, on the other hand, woke up this morning to discover a massive bruise on my inner thigh from having squeezed for my dear life to stay attached to the pole.

Very quickly, Jacquelyn and I noticed how out of the league we were. With each step of choreography given to us, our faces would twist into deeper looks of "WTF!?!" To make matters even sweeter, our pole wasn't the most snuggly installed and the fixtures would rattle loudly each time we threw ourselves at the thing. It was bad.

As we went through the routine, Jacquelyn and I decided we'd try to have as much fun as we could and would just make up our own moves to fill-in the parts that gravity and weak biceps wouldn't allow. The teacher and the fellow strippers-in-training looked at us as if we were committing ho blasphemy.

Two hours after we went down the road of uncoordinated ass wiggles in the Land of Waifs, it was over. We promptly ran to a local bar to soothe and cleanse our souls with beer and nachos, thus making everything better in the way that only melted cheese and liquor can.

Never again!

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