Monday, July 31, 2006
And Now....The longest Post ever.
Today we had a bomb scare in our office building. We almost got to go home all day but that damn bomb robot figured out it was fake dynamite and we ended up only getting the morning off. Which we spent in a bar, having beer (a bunch of us) and chicken fingers (just me) and WATCHING OURSELVES ON TV. Yes, that's right. A group of us were filmed by the CBS 46 news team, because we provided the most accurate visual portrayal of "employees evacuated and worried". Of all the employees in the whole building, WE looked most worried. And most evacuated. I don't like to brag, but I got an extreme close-up. I was talking on my cell phone, a look of heightened concern on my face. I mean, it actually was some of my best work. And I have done a LOT of TV, my friends. I have been on the Today Show (my dad says he saw me). Also, at age 8 I did a little stint on the local PBS station in which I discussed the history of Jacksonville, my home city. Did you know it was once named Cowford? No, no you did not. Well it was.
Anyway. Tina looked pretty good as well. She was in more of what I like to call an ensemble shot. Even so, she was clearly the one flower among a bunch of weeds.
So. What I realized as a result of having to climb DOWN 14 flights of stairs when the fire alarm went off, is that I am out of shape. In fact that is the definition of out of shape: What you are when your calf muscles shake and you nearly die after climbing DOWN 14 flights of stairs. Not even up. So I need to work out, and the admission of this makes my fingers shrivel and ache just from typing it. The thing is, how can anyone LIKE to work out? How is it normal to run and run or climb and climb and not get anywhere? Also the thing about working out in a gym is that you are never done. You never learn or graduate or finish. You are going to have to go do it again tomorrow. I HATE IT. I hate it worse than people who don't share COOKIES.
Two hundred years ago, no one had to work out in gyms because instead they churned butter and built furniture and held babies. They accomplished something, and as a side effect they stayed skinny and muscley. I could become Amish, but realistically I'm far too reliant on things like pop-tarts and Entourage and birth control pills. So this afternoon my little brain starts milling over my options. Likes: Nice hineys. Strong calves. Flexibility. Cupcakes. Dislikes: Sneakers. Meatheads. Cellulite. For me, the least painful avenue to take seems to be Old Faithful- dance classes. Tine and I used to take B-girl classes (that's breakdancing for you sucka emcees) at this dance studio called Dance 101, but I never really looked at what else they have there. Dang, once I looked at their website I couldn't even believe it! You never saw so many cool dance classes in your life. They have a ballet class where you wear weights on your arms and legs! A bellydancing class that comes with free coin scarf rental! Some class where you learn the entire opening number of A Chorus Line! And there, halfway down the list, a class MADE for me: HIP. HOP. TAP.
There are few things I love more than my tap shoes. It's like playing drums with your feet, and I am good. Or I was once. But let's face it, when's the last time you saw a tap dancer in a music video (if you bring up Paula Abdul I will not like you). Tap Dancers are the nerds of the dance world. Loud, ungraceful, unloved. So you learn to hide your love of tap at an early age. But could it be? Could it be that there are people out there like me, who yearn to tie up those taps and do a little Stomp Buck time step to some Missy Elliot? I am so excited about this prospect, I can hardly wait for class on Saturday. For now I will go home and shine up my old taps. Cause I'm Mookie on the microphone. I'm stupid fresh, that's the shit I'm on. WOOOOOOOP.
Anyway. Tina looked pretty good as well. She was in more of what I like to call an ensemble shot. Even so, she was clearly the one flower among a bunch of weeds.
So. What I realized as a result of having to climb DOWN 14 flights of stairs when the fire alarm went off, is that I am out of shape. In fact that is the definition of out of shape: What you are when your calf muscles shake and you nearly die after climbing DOWN 14 flights of stairs. Not even up. So I need to work out, and the admission of this makes my fingers shrivel and ache just from typing it. The thing is, how can anyone LIKE to work out? How is it normal to run and run or climb and climb and not get anywhere? Also the thing about working out in a gym is that you are never done. You never learn or graduate or finish. You are going to have to go do it again tomorrow. I HATE IT. I hate it worse than people who don't share COOKIES.
Two hundred years ago, no one had to work out in gyms because instead they churned butter and built furniture and held babies. They accomplished something, and as a side effect they stayed skinny and muscley. I could become Amish, but realistically I'm far too reliant on things like pop-tarts and Entourage and birth control pills. So this afternoon my little brain starts milling over my options. Likes: Nice hineys. Strong calves. Flexibility. Cupcakes. Dislikes: Sneakers. Meatheads. Cellulite. For me, the least painful avenue to take seems to be Old Faithful- dance classes. Tine and I used to take B-girl classes (that's breakdancing for you sucka emcees) at this dance studio called Dance 101, but I never really looked at what else they have there. Dang, once I looked at their website I couldn't even believe it! You never saw so many cool dance classes in your life. They have a ballet class where you wear weights on your arms and legs! A bellydancing class that comes with free coin scarf rental! Some class where you learn the entire opening number of A Chorus Line! And there, halfway down the list, a class MADE for me: HIP. HOP. TAP.
There are few things I love more than my tap shoes. It's like playing drums with your feet, and I am good. Or I was once. But let's face it, when's the last time you saw a tap dancer in a music video (if you bring up Paula Abdul I will not like you). Tap Dancers are the nerds of the dance world. Loud, ungraceful, unloved. So you learn to hide your love of tap at an early age. But could it be? Could it be that there are people out there like me, who yearn to tie up those taps and do a little Stomp Buck time step to some Missy Elliot? I am so excited about this prospect, I can hardly wait for class on Saturday. For now I will go home and shine up my old taps. Cause I'm Mookie on the microphone. I'm stupid fresh, that's the shit I'm on. WOOOOOOOP.
Monday, July 10, 2006
ZZZZZZZ
Jeez people. I hadn't even realized how long it had been since I posted. All three of you readers must have given up on me. Tine and I have been hella busy at work. But as long as I have a minute...
This weekend I was thinking how the only thing I like as much as eating is sleeping. Then I was thinking how when I eat, I have very few rules. I'll pretty much try anything, and I like most foods. I'm the antithesis of a picky eater and if I find out you are a very picky eater I secretly think less of you. This even applies to people I'm married to. But when I think about it, I have the same finicky sensibilities when it comes to sleeping as a lot of people do for eating. I'm what you call a Picky Sleeper. Case in point:
1. I cannot sleep facing another person. If we are facing each other, we are trying to breathe the same air, and clearly there will not be enough to air to share in the small space between our noses. Also, your breath is warm. Also, I am obviously going to be breathing in the carbon dioxide that you are breathing out which can't be good. In conclusion, sleeping face to face=lack of good oxygen=smothering to death in my sleep. I'll just turn my head the other way, thanks. As an added transgression, you might wake up and stare at me while I sleep and then I might wake up and see you staring at me and that would be scary.
2. My legs have to be arranged in the flamingo position. This is one leg out straight, one leg bent at the knee, toe to opposite knee. For you former ballerinas, this is also called pique. If you're wondering how I spoon in that position, I don't. Spooning while sleeping makes me feel physically oppressed. We can cuddle for a bit, then you have to get away from me so that I can arrange my legs.
3. None of my limbs can hang over the side of the bed. An arm flung carelessly over the side is an invitation to the monsters/clowns/homocidal maniacs that might be hiding under there to gnaw my fingers off or pull me into their lair by the arm, where they will cut me into small pieces. In fact, I prefer my arms to be tucked underneath my body to alleviate all opportunity for this.
The upside of all this is that sleeping with me is like sleeping alone. I won't breathe on you, steal covers, or even cross the invisible line down the middle of the bed. If you are a picky sleeper too, you'll appreciate that. If you're not a picky sleeper, well, secretly I think less of you.
This weekend I was thinking how the only thing I like as much as eating is sleeping. Then I was thinking how when I eat, I have very few rules. I'll pretty much try anything, and I like most foods. I'm the antithesis of a picky eater and if I find out you are a very picky eater I secretly think less of you. This even applies to people I'm married to. But when I think about it, I have the same finicky sensibilities when it comes to sleeping as a lot of people do for eating. I'm what you call a Picky Sleeper. Case in point:
1. I cannot sleep facing another person. If we are facing each other, we are trying to breathe the same air, and clearly there will not be enough to air to share in the small space between our noses. Also, your breath is warm. Also, I am obviously going to be breathing in the carbon dioxide that you are breathing out which can't be good. In conclusion, sleeping face to face=lack of good oxygen=smothering to death in my sleep. I'll just turn my head the other way, thanks. As an added transgression, you might wake up and stare at me while I sleep and then I might wake up and see you staring at me and that would be scary.
2. My legs have to be arranged in the flamingo position. This is one leg out straight, one leg bent at the knee, toe to opposite knee. For you former ballerinas, this is also called pique. If you're wondering how I spoon in that position, I don't. Spooning while sleeping makes me feel physically oppressed. We can cuddle for a bit, then you have to get away from me so that I can arrange my legs.
3. None of my limbs can hang over the side of the bed. An arm flung carelessly over the side is an invitation to the monsters/clowns/homocidal maniacs that might be hiding under there to gnaw my fingers off or pull me into their lair by the arm, where they will cut me into small pieces. In fact, I prefer my arms to be tucked underneath my body to alleviate all opportunity for this.
The upside of all this is that sleeping with me is like sleeping alone. I won't breathe on you, steal covers, or even cross the invisible line down the middle of the bed. If you are a picky sleeper too, you'll appreciate that. If you're not a picky sleeper, well, secretly I think less of you.
