Wednesday, May 29, 2013

The One With All The Sand

Last weekend I was at the beach when two young lads walked by brandishing fishing poles and a bad attitude. One was particularly unhappy and it was all the sand's fault.

"F*ck the sand. I hate this f*cking sand. Stupid, f*cking sand."

I totally understand his annoyance. Nothing is more offensive than sand at the beach (the nerve of nature). Seriously, someone should have prepared him for that. Like maybe with a sign or giant banner.

Truthfully, I used to share his sentiment. When I as a kid (as in a small child, not a baby goat), I hated the beach. Partially due to the severe anxiety it created within me (caused by nothing other than my brain is an asshole), but mainly due to All. That. Sand.

After recovering from the grave injustice that was my parents forcing me out of bed before noon to enjoy the great (offensive) outdoors, I would plop my sulky butt on a towel and go to work on my vendetta against the millions of teeny tiny piece of crushed shell.

As an eight year old with little knowledge of the carnal sand - man relations, I did not eff the sand as the angry teen so desired to do today. In fact, I desired the exact opposite of such intimacy and began the highly scientific process of frenetic hand movements, whining and intermittent shrieking to remove every last speck from my body. Between the toes was the hardest and although I don't have an exact recollection, I'm pretty sure I came up with my own colorful words  to describe my feelings about the sand.

By the time I had de-sanded myself, my parents would declare it was time to go. Trust me when I say this, it is impossible to walk from the beach to the boardwalk without getting covered in sand. Not just your feet, but your entire body. Your sandals launch the sand into the backs of your thighs where it explodes against your skin like a thousand tiny missiles. And those 47 towels you laid out in an attempt to carpet a two mile terrycloth radius to protect you from "the nasty"? Are now covered in the stuff. And no matter how you fold them, there is no keeping the side that came in contact with the sand away from every square inch of your body.

By the time you reach the boardwalk, you resemble a dog who broke free from its owner, flopped on his back and wiggled wantonly about. Only without the googly-eyed look of joy.

As an adult, I've come to embrace the sand, but the whole Sand Coverage Upon the Leaving the Beach Phenomenon still annoys me. As an eight year old girl who spent the last seven hours digging it from between my toes, this downright pissed me off. And so I did what any eight year child would do and proceeded to have a temper tantrum. But only inside my head because my mother frowned upon children acting like whiny little turds.

I have to wonder why those teens were at the beach if they hated it so much. They looked old enough to drive so I'm pretty sure they were there voluntarily. However, considering their attitude, it wouldn't surprise me if their mother, who'd had enough of their complaining about the "Stupid, f*cking chicken," she had so lovingly prepared, forced them in the car, drove to the beach, shoved them out and yelled, "don't come home until you catch some stupid, f*cking fish!" as she drove away.

I suspect they won't be home for awhile. Not only did they miss the sign alerting them that the beach now has sand, they also missed the one that said NO FISHING ALLOWED.

Comment gems!
Aaaaaand now I want a cream filled donut. Yes, that's what I got out of this post. Thankyouverymuch.

When I read Sweaty McJudgy I just had to stop by.

I'd say the husband is a very wise man. That said, how come you're the only one who produces Salt Lake City at that gym of yours? Are you sure those looks aren't involuntary expressions of jealousy, because spandex looks so good on you? I get those looks a lot too and I don't sweat, so.... One problem solved. Let's tick it.

Some women have eyelashes the size of an elephant. That makes winking to themselves in the mirror pretty hard work. I'd call that fitness. Are you sure they don't sweat ninja style? If they're standing in a puddle, it might be because they're not pissing their pants when they see you coming. Do you know what I mean? ;)

Thursday, May 9, 2013

Sweaty McJudgy

The very last place you should go on a day when every darn thing under the sun grinds your gears is the gym. Against my better judgment I went there the other night. Night, as in, 11:00 p.m. As in, one hour before midnight. As in, the time when I should have been watching Friends reruns and eating Dove dark chocolate. But instead I decided to work out because it has recently come to my attention that if you don't want your ass to touch the backs of your knees or your arms to flap about wildly in the wind, you actually have to do something about it. You can't just bitch about not looking like a Victoria's Secret model while simultaneously shoving a block of cheese and a cream filled donut into your mouth.

Typically, I prefer running around my neighborhood, but given the late hour the husband thought it unwise to jaunt about with the rapists and murderers (one time I ran by the creepy creepers who hang out at the Taco Bell and the husband was not pleased).

On a regular day, the gym pisses me off. Primarily because I am the only one who sweats there. (If I owned a gym our motto would be, "If you don't sweat, you're doing it wrong. Also? Get out.") You should see the looks people give me. Disgusted, they are. Absolutely disgusted. Granted, I have no idea how I manage to sweat 10 times more in an air conditioned building than I do in the Florida humidity (just blessed, I guess), but are the looks really necessary?

It's a little (okay, a lot of) sweat, people. Not a spontaneous outbreak of leprosy. You can relax. I'm not going to get any of my disgusting salty drippings on you (though I am tempted to ring out my hair over your pimple-bedazzled back. Lay off the 'roids dude. Haven't you heard what they do to your jewels? We're talking raisins. RAISINS.)

Tonight, I came to a startling realization. The sole reason some women join a gym is to meet a man (yes, I realize I am the last person on the planet to become aware of this). It's not that I judge them (yes I do) or something I wouldn't do too if I were single (no I wouldn't), it's just that come on. At least try to make it look like you're there to work out.

They could start by removing the fake eyelashes. I have to believe that all that lash impedes their ability to appropriately assess the bicep situation in the free weights area. Just imagine what would happen if
the glue came loose, causing the lashes to dangle from Lashy McLasherton's lid and partially obstruct her view. She could end up selecting a guy whose brain is bigger than his deltoid.


Listen, I understand that if you're in the market for a guy, you don't want to reach the level of DEFCON disgustingness that I so effortlessly achieve. But is it too much to ask to tame ALL. THAT. HAIR.? And is it really necessary to have SO. MUCH. BOOB.? This isn't an attack on well-endowed ladies. Big or small, I take issue with boobs that are IN. MY. FACE. If I'm distracted by it (and I don't even want to get with it) I don't know how the men are even able to function (I think I just realized the actual reason for all the grunting).

Also, can the employees please stop molesting each other while behind the front desk? I haven't taken a gander at your employee handbook but I'm pretty sure it says that all shoulder rubs must be done during your fifteen minute break (actually, it probably says 'don't touch your coworkers because it's sexual harassment and AGAINST THE LAW.)

Honestly, I should just stop going to the gym. Clearly I can't handle it. On my way out, the girl behind the counter said, "See you later, girl." To which I responded, "Thank you."

Because the appropriate response when someone says, "bye" is to thank them.

No sound actually came out when I said the words, because what? people are supposed to hear us when we talk?! I'm not sure if it was a good thing or not. On the one hand, she didn't hear my stupid response. On the other hand, I resembled a fish who had the unfortunate experience of being introduced to oxygen.

Next time, I choose the Taco Bell creeps.

I realize this makes me sound like a big bitter bitch, and I promise I'm not. I was just in a SUPER bad mood that day and everything was pissing me off. Two days later I went back to the gym and was all, "look at all these amazing people trying to get healthy and better their lives! look at how effortlessly they climb those stairs and lift those weights. and not a drop of sweat! how beautiful they are. I LOVE ALL THESE PEOPLE!"

A huge special thanks to TriGirl for her guest post! If you haven't read It's Genetic, DO IT NOW!

Comment gems! 
Tri-Girl is the best! I think I would get along with your dad, for, as much as I'd hate to admit it, I'm a sucker for puns. 

those drawings are amazing... thanks for a new great blog to follow!