So, after being humiliatingly rejected and turned into a spurned lover (okay, that's all utter nonsense, but it sounds more dramatic, doesn't it?) I was convinced by several insanely-minded people to join one of those horrific dating websites.
I was sold once I realized that it would be perfect fodder for this blog. Meeting Copious Amounts of Horrendous Guys But Not Dating = impressive amounts of ridiculous stories. Meeting Seemingly Decent Guys and Dating = impressive amounts of ridiculous stories. Thus, the experiment begins.
First of all, let me just say... that I still consider myself the same awkward thing I was at age 12. The braces, glasses, skin issues, ears that stuck out like satellite dishes.... bad perm... not a pretty picture. So, even if I have pictures of myself I like, I still am That Girl. However, this apparently doesn't come across on the internet.
To try and show this nerdy, playful side, I started my profile off like this: "I spent my childhood in the Midwest, camping, climbing trees, making up dances, writing silly stories, exploring, checking out every book in the library, building ridiculous forts and singing Mariah Carey songs so loudly, my parents were sent into waves of convulsions."
I talked about being a science teacher, and briefly about my travels, of which there are more pictures of than myself. I talked about how its the little things that make a difference, like leaving sticky notes for the person to wake up to. And lastly, that I didn't need a man at all.
I thought, that ought to ward off the players and the.... okay. I'm an idiot. You know this. I am blissfully unaware of how I appear to the opposite sex, apparently.
The astounding statistics?
In 4 days.... I got 106 emails. I was "winked" at 75 times. Over 30 people favorited me and my profile has been visited a mortifying 1,041 times. Insane and unbelievable? Yes. Mind-boggling? Also yes. A little creepy and mystifying? Makes me want to get a doberman and post pictures of my grandmother instead? Yes and yes.
I will, when I have a bit more time, post some of the more horrific e-mails I've received, but this one, today, made me laugh out loud.
Backstory: This guy had written me a quick e-mail. I checked out his profile and saw that everything rhymed. So, in typical Miss J style.... I made fun of him. (Surprised?)
And this is what I received:
I got more rhymes than the other guys do, they're just the chimps I'm the whole damn zoo.
At 13 she was just a young buck building basement forts, dropping Carey's notes in her tacky jam shorts. Sticking bubble tape under the Mrs Butterworth's table all just to get back to her My Little Pony play stable.
He was just a young punk spitting rhymes like his favorite MC, Bust a Move was the note to be. Times have changed and so have we, Imogen Heap could never replace her old cds.
From the Midwest? I put this game to a three question test. I bet she's with the Barack party-a native of Illinois could you be? She didn't post any pics of an elephant nor did I see the kicking donkey, but if I had two more guesses I'd say she digs the Wisconsin brie. Or the L'Etoile du Nord state?
You mentioned China, but posted no pic of the Terra Cotta fighta. Maybe next time daddy will fly you on an Asian lina in hopes to sit in a dim sum dina.
You say your looking for a knight to hide some sticky love notes, but I'm looking for a lady to laugh at my lame Chappelle quotes. However, if we can joke about the withering sounds of Diane Rehm's voice, then I'll find time to boobie trap your favorite rainy-day coats.
Well Mrs. Freeman, you can Lean On Me a little more seeing a this took a sec to plop this together. F&%@ Bill Nye! Try Steve Spangler-he's quite the dry-ice wrangler.
HA!!! Oh, the laughter. How great. A dose of my own medicine. I am totally amused.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
More Williamisms
"I'm too cool for any of the teachers here"
*snort!* "HA!"
"Okay.... I'm to funny for any of the teachers here."
"Yep. That's true. I laugh at you."
"HEY! .... I make you laugh....."
"Yes William. You make me laugh."
"I'm not dating middle school girls anymore. They're crazy."
"Yep. Lots of hormones and drama."
"Yeah! And also, you just mess around with another chick and they're all like OH MY GOD WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR YOU JERK and then they start hitting you....."
"Yeah. Imagine that. Cheat on your girlfriend and she gets p-oed."
"I know!"
"...Where'd you leave your loyalty, William?"
"At home."
"Maybe you should try bringing it sometimes instead of leaving it under your bed."
"Maybe I should date older girls instead."
"Good luck with that."
*snort!* "HA!"
"Okay.... I'm to funny for any of the teachers here."
"Yep. That's true. I laugh at you."
"HEY! .... I make you laugh....."
"Yes William. You make me laugh."
"I'm not dating middle school girls anymore. They're crazy."
"Yep. Lots of hormones and drama."
"Yeah! And also, you just mess around with another chick and they're all like OH MY GOD WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR YOU JERK and then they start hitting you....."
"Yeah. Imagine that. Cheat on your girlfriend and she gets p-oed."
"I know!"
"...Where'd you leave your loyalty, William?"
"At home."
"Maybe you should try bringing it sometimes instead of leaving it under your bed."
"Maybe I should date older girls instead."
"Good luck with that."
Magnetism
Yesterday, a couple of my former (and soon to be current!) students were around to help some of the teachers unpack their things. After lugging around tens of large, heavy boxes (more on all of that insanity later), we plopped down on my new tables.
William sees me flicker my eyes away from our conversation. Out the door, another teacher carries a box of garbage into the hallway. My eyes flicker back. The madness starts.
"Did you just check him out?"
"Nope. I saw him. Seeing doesn't constitute checking out."
"I think you were checking him out."
"And I think you need to go back a grade."
"Miss J was checking out the new language arts teaaaaacherrrr!"
"Doofus. I have someone I can look at if need be."
"Wait! I thought your guy broke up with you."
"He did."
"You have a new one?!"
"Sort of."
"Man! Miss J, are you a boy magnet?"
"HA! Hahaha! I don't think so."
"Can I meet him?"
"What's with all you guys and the show-and-tell?"
"Well.... we just wanna make sure he's good enough for you."
Well, I guess I can't argue with that.
William sees me flicker my eyes away from our conversation. Out the door, another teacher carries a box of garbage into the hallway. My eyes flicker back. The madness starts.
"Did you just check him out?"
"Nope. I saw him. Seeing doesn't constitute checking out."
"I think you were checking him out."
"And I think you need to go back a grade."
"Miss J was checking out the new language arts teaaaaacherrrr!"
"Doofus. I have someone I can look at if need be."
"Wait! I thought your guy broke up with you."
"He did."
"You have a new one?!"
"Sort of."
"Man! Miss J, are you a boy magnet?"
"HA! Hahaha! I don't think so."
"Can I meet him?"
"What's with all you guys and the show-and-tell?"
"Well.... we just wanna make sure he's good enough for you."
Well, I guess I can't argue with that.
Unexpected Rorschach Tests
It has been ten days since I took the plunge and joined the squadrons of bouncing brunettes and muscle-bound blondes.... Ten days, seven visits, only three near heart attacks.....
Visit 1: Oh god, oh god, I'm an OUTSIDER. I'm the thing that doesn't belong in that Sesame Street song! I'm like a pitted, gleaming, bioluminescent orange sitting among a pile of perfect, smooth, white eggs. Eek! Thank god I'm wearing pants. Okay, I made it. I made it up the stairs! The machine I want is open! There are people here that are worse off than I am! No one is looking at anyone else! Okay.... okay.... I can do this....Just... breathe..breathe.. wait no! Don't hyperventilate! The song blaring into my ears? C'mon baby and rescue me.....
Visit 2: In front of me, a behemoth of a man is on the treadmill, fat lurching with every heavy, plodding step, sweating huge Rorschach tests through his red shirt. I see a dragonfly, a lightbulb and a thunderhead and wonder what that says about me.
Then, watching him heave along, I think to myself "You know, I really respect that guy. He could be sitting on his couch right now... but what is he doing? He's here. Bettering himself. In front of a bunch of skinny broads. What a cool guy!" And then, I wonder if everyone else felt the same way about non-athletic people braving the space. I hope so. In my ears, Charles Wright is cheering us both on.....
What ever you do, UH! Do it good.
What ever you do, do it good. All right...
It’s not what you look like, when you’re doin´ what you’re doin´.
It’s what you’re doin´ when you’re doin´ what you look like you’re doin´! Express yourself!
If I understood what that meant I would agree completely! You sing it, Charles!
Visit 3: The Stairmaster should be renamed as the Tripmaster. Used to taking stairs two-at-a time, I trip over my feet, smoosh my toes into the step, flail, hurk, and if it's possible to stutter with one's feet instead of one's mouth.... I do it.
I look like I'm sliding on ice, like bees are attacking my ankles, like I accidentally walked on coals and broken glass.
I switch to elliptical (my favorite thing, as it turns out) and while I'm sliding along, all smooth moves and suaveness....the mental damage has been done and I feel moronic. I swear people are thinking I'm part of a movie and there's a crew somewhere secretly taping me, for there's just no way a person could bust out those moves without serious choreography or comic genius... right? No one could be THAT pathetic....
Forty five minutes later, I hop off to stretch, get a drink of water and ....wait one god damn second. Is that...sweat? Between my THIGHS? Is that crotch sweat? That's not possible. Sweet lord, I hope that's not where all that moisture came from. That's just gross. Hold on. Can the people BEHIND me see this? Can they see my crotch's Rorschach test? Oh, hell, oh HELL!
In my ears? Creedence Clearwater.
Come on the risin' wind, we're goin' up around the bend.
*sob*
Visit 4: My best friend told me I had to buy running shorts. I made snarly noises at her. I won't be running. I don't need running shorts. Who wants to see these gams? But she insisted. So, I bought running shorts. Black ones with pink stripes. And then they sat and stared at me petulantly for days like a dog I should have been walking but just let outside... and left wholly unsatisfied. But on the fourth visit? The day that God supposedly separated light from dark and placed the moon and the sun in the sky to guide us.... or presumably, to never let us escape the hatred of our thighs.... I wore the damn shorts.
Why? Because they were expensive and they made me feel guilty. And more importantly: to possibly thwart the dreaded inner-thigh sweat. And you know what? They worked. I am now a short-wearing fiend. Turns out one should always listen to best friends. They know what they're talking about. Pants be damned! Song? I want to take you hiiiiiigher! Ike and Tina, baby.
Now we're on visit seven. I have tried 4 leg-working machines, the Tripmaster, two ellipticals (I prefer the one sans crazy arm levers... they make me feel like a spastic monkey with ADD). I have figured out how hard I can push myself so I can do cardiovascular ridiculousness for an hour straight. I can touch my palms to my toes. I feel less stupid. And I ask myself a question very few women ask.....
"Hold on. Does my butt look SMALLER in these pants??!"
So now, like God, on the 7th day, I can rest. Ain't no Mountain High Enough blasting in my ears, smile on my lips, terrified no longer.
Bring it on, world.
Visit 1: Oh god, oh god, I'm an OUTSIDER. I'm the thing that doesn't belong in that Sesame Street song! I'm like a pitted, gleaming, bioluminescent orange sitting among a pile of perfect, smooth, white eggs. Eek! Thank god I'm wearing pants. Okay, I made it. I made it up the stairs! The machine I want is open! There are people here that are worse off than I am! No one is looking at anyone else! Okay.... okay.... I can do this....Just... breathe..breathe.. wait no! Don't hyperventilate! The song blaring into my ears? C'mon baby and rescue me.....
Visit 2: In front of me, a behemoth of a man is on the treadmill, fat lurching with every heavy, plodding step, sweating huge Rorschach tests through his red shirt. I see a dragonfly, a lightbulb and a thunderhead and wonder what that says about me.
Then, watching him heave along, I think to myself "You know, I really respect that guy. He could be sitting on his couch right now... but what is he doing? He's here. Bettering himself. In front of a bunch of skinny broads. What a cool guy!" And then, I wonder if everyone else felt the same way about non-athletic people braving the space. I hope so. In my ears, Charles Wright is cheering us both on.....
What ever you do, UH! Do it good.
What ever you do, do it good. All right...
It’s not what you look like, when you’re doin´ what you’re doin´.
It’s what you’re doin´ when you’re doin´ what you look like you’re doin´! Express yourself!
If I understood what that meant I would agree completely! You sing it, Charles!
Visit 3: The Stairmaster should be renamed as the Tripmaster. Used to taking stairs two-at-a time, I trip over my feet, smoosh my toes into the step, flail, hurk, and if it's possible to stutter with one's feet instead of one's mouth.... I do it.
I look like I'm sliding on ice, like bees are attacking my ankles, like I accidentally walked on coals and broken glass.
I switch to elliptical (my favorite thing, as it turns out) and while I'm sliding along, all smooth moves and suaveness....the mental damage has been done and I feel moronic. I swear people are thinking I'm part of a movie and there's a crew somewhere secretly taping me, for there's just no way a person could bust out those moves without serious choreography or comic genius... right? No one could be THAT pathetic....
Forty five minutes later, I hop off to stretch, get a drink of water and ....wait one god damn second. Is that...sweat? Between my THIGHS? Is that crotch sweat? That's not possible. Sweet lord, I hope that's not where all that moisture came from. That's just gross. Hold on. Can the people BEHIND me see this? Can they see my crotch's Rorschach test? Oh, hell, oh HELL!
In my ears? Creedence Clearwater.
Come on the risin' wind, we're goin' up around the bend.
*sob*
Visit 4: My best friend told me I had to buy running shorts. I made snarly noises at her. I won't be running. I don't need running shorts. Who wants to see these gams? But she insisted. So, I bought running shorts. Black ones with pink stripes. And then they sat and stared at me petulantly for days like a dog I should have been walking but just let outside... and left wholly unsatisfied. But on the fourth visit? The day that God supposedly separated light from dark and placed the moon and the sun in the sky to guide us.... or presumably, to never let us escape the hatred of our thighs.... I wore the damn shorts.
Why? Because they were expensive and they made me feel guilty. And more importantly: to possibly thwart the dreaded inner-thigh sweat. And you know what? They worked. I am now a short-wearing fiend. Turns out one should always listen to best friends. They know what they're talking about. Pants be damned! Song? I want to take you hiiiiiigher! Ike and Tina, baby.
Now we're on visit seven. I have tried 4 leg-working machines, the Tripmaster, two ellipticals (I prefer the one sans crazy arm levers... they make me feel like a spastic monkey with ADD). I have figured out how hard I can push myself so I can do cardiovascular ridiculousness for an hour straight. I can touch my palms to my toes. I feel less stupid. And I ask myself a question very few women ask.....
"Hold on. Does my butt look SMALLER in these pants??!"
So now, like God, on the 7th day, I can rest. Ain't no Mountain High Enough blasting in my ears, smile on my lips, terrified no longer.
Bring it on, world.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
A Rant on Wommenfolk
So, not long ago, I watched the movie Hitch. A relatively cute movie, as so far as romantic comedies go. However charming, there was one part that made me massively annoyed. At one point, Eva Mendes's character goes into this frenzy and starts throwing broccoli at Will Smith's character, drinking wine with reckless abandon out of the bottle, and shouting like a rabid banshee.
Why? Because she thinks he's done something terrible. She makes an assumption and runs with it into the land of little white jackets and padded cells. And what does he do? He let's her go nuts, and then ADDS TO THE INSANITY and throws lettuce back at her. Totally sinks to her level. The worst part? Later, he runs after her to prove himself, and realizes, of course, that he loves her and chases her until she caves in. I wanted to punch both of them. Right in their beautiful faces.
Why are we perpetuating this? Why is this behavior seen as okay? Why do we keep allowing this crap to infiltrate our media and poison the minds of our little girls? And our men? I'd say 90% of women, to some degree, do this crap. These are the women that are ruining all the good men out there. This is why our men are commitment-phobic. This is why they're guarded! This is why they're jaded. They're hurt.
These are the harpies that think its okay to be manipulative and crazy, and expect the guy to run after them when they storm off. And 90% of the time... the men do! Thus, perpetuating the bullshit!
Guys? Don't. If Lady acts Crazy, let her GO! She's not worth it. She doesn't respect you. And if you really feel something for her? You really think she's a good woman? Fine. Let her walk away. Don't chase her. Call her on her crap. And if she changes? Wakes up? Apologises? Okay then. Give the gal a second chance. But if she does this again? She's gone. Have some dignity! Self-respect, man!
What should Eva have done? Obviously, she should have just talked to him. Confronted the issue. Had a nice little conversation before jumping to ridiculous conclusions. But she didn't. And most of the women in most movies I've seen do the same nonsense. Its in books, its on the television, its done by our female family members, probably most of our female friends. Even I did some of this crap before I was called on it, made aware. And yeah, I realize that a conversation doesn't make for the best drama, takes away some of the suspense of the film/movie/book whatever... but seriously? Can we not find a better way to create drama than portraying our women as illogical, manipulative, emotional wenches? Please? Because, you know what? Not all of us are. But, what we see, we'll model, unfortunately. And this has become accepted by our society.
It's just not okay.
So, girls, stand up and throw the games to the wind. And men? Don't play into their hands. If you love 'em, put your foot down. Its all about respect!
Another thing?
Not long ago, I read this astounding mass of drivel and wanted to smack my head against the wall a few times. Okay, woman. You know what? We've got some things in common. I'm 25, I'm not terribly hideous, and sure, some security would be nice... but.... could you let me rewrite your entry for you? And then post it not on craigslist but somewhere less sleazy?
In fact, I think I'll do just that.....
Let's see here... ah-hem....
"What am I doing wrong?
I'm tired of beating around the bush. I'm 25, and getting to that point where I worry that I'm never going to find someone that appreciates the insane amount of love I generate. I'm looking to be with a man who loves me despite the fact that I accidentally let food go to waste, leave empty glasses all over the house, and have to have every shirt in my closet facing the same direction.
I believe that my man should have his independence, his own friends, his own interests. I believe that beer with the buddies is a good thing just like I believe girls night is also a necessity. I believe in giving both loads of teasing and unconditional love. I believe that communication is incredibly important, but asking permission to do what you want is silly. I believe in a team, a partnership, a best friend who gets my heart too.
Are there any men out there, men not terrified of commitment? Not burnt so many times that they've just given up? Men that work hard but have the time to make their significant others feel important and cherished? Men that realize time is more important than money, and a handmade card is more precious than a string of pearls? Wives, where did you meet them? More importantly, how did you keep them? How do you convince them that you won't hurt them? That you're not one of the masses who storm off and break their hearts? That you can be trusted?
I'm just a girl who wants to spoil someone instead of being spoiled. I know where the Goonies was filmed, and the original skin color of Nick Fury. I can quote Monty Python and know all the words to the Kiss Destroyer album. I sing Disney songs to cheer myself up, bowl like an idiot, and find joy in the small things. I love action movies, The Office, giving massages and surprising people with picnics and treasure hunts. I enjoy the artistry of makeup, but will run outside when it starts raining without a second thought. I enjoy camping, hiking, biking. I love wrestling with dogs and getting over my fears. I make a mean lemon meringue pie and the best potato salad you'll ever taste. I push myself. I'm a workaholic. I am constantly learning, changing, evolving. I go to fancy restaurants, shopping centers, movie theatres, and yes, even the gym...all my myself.
I don't need you.
I am fine all by my kick-ass self.
But having a high-quality man in my life sure would be a lot of fun."
The End.
Why? Because she thinks he's done something terrible. She makes an assumption and runs with it into the land of little white jackets and padded cells. And what does he do? He let's her go nuts, and then ADDS TO THE INSANITY and throws lettuce back at her. Totally sinks to her level. The worst part? Later, he runs after her to prove himself, and realizes, of course, that he loves her and chases her until she caves in. I wanted to punch both of them. Right in their beautiful faces.
Why are we perpetuating this? Why is this behavior seen as okay? Why do we keep allowing this crap to infiltrate our media and poison the minds of our little girls? And our men? I'd say 90% of women, to some degree, do this crap. These are the women that are ruining all the good men out there. This is why our men are commitment-phobic. This is why they're guarded! This is why they're jaded. They're hurt.
These are the harpies that think its okay to be manipulative and crazy, and expect the guy to run after them when they storm off. And 90% of the time... the men do! Thus, perpetuating the bullshit!
Guys? Don't. If Lady acts Crazy, let her GO! She's not worth it. She doesn't respect you. And if you really feel something for her? You really think she's a good woman? Fine. Let her walk away. Don't chase her. Call her on her crap. And if she changes? Wakes up? Apologises? Okay then. Give the gal a second chance. But if she does this again? She's gone. Have some dignity! Self-respect, man!
What should Eva have done? Obviously, she should have just talked to him. Confronted the issue. Had a nice little conversation before jumping to ridiculous conclusions. But she didn't. And most of the women in most movies I've seen do the same nonsense. Its in books, its on the television, its done by our female family members, probably most of our female friends. Even I did some of this crap before I was called on it, made aware. And yeah, I realize that a conversation doesn't make for the best drama, takes away some of the suspense of the film/movie/book whatever... but seriously? Can we not find a better way to create drama than portraying our women as illogical, manipulative, emotional wenches? Please? Because, you know what? Not all of us are. But, what we see, we'll model, unfortunately. And this has become accepted by our society.
It's just not okay.
So, girls, stand up and throw the games to the wind. And men? Don't play into their hands. If you love 'em, put your foot down. Its all about respect!
Another thing?
Not long ago, I read this astounding mass of drivel and wanted to smack my head against the wall a few times. Okay, woman. You know what? We've got some things in common. I'm 25, I'm not terribly hideous, and sure, some security would be nice... but.... could you let me rewrite your entry for you? And then post it not on craigslist but somewhere less sleazy?
In fact, I think I'll do just that.....
Let's see here... ah-hem....
"What am I doing wrong?
I'm tired of beating around the bush. I'm 25, and getting to that point where I worry that I'm never going to find someone that appreciates the insane amount of love I generate. I'm looking to be with a man who loves me despite the fact that I accidentally let food go to waste, leave empty glasses all over the house, and have to have every shirt in my closet facing the same direction.
I believe that my man should have his independence, his own friends, his own interests. I believe that beer with the buddies is a good thing just like I believe girls night is also a necessity. I believe in giving both loads of teasing and unconditional love. I believe that communication is incredibly important, but asking permission to do what you want is silly. I believe in a team, a partnership, a best friend who gets my heart too.
Are there any men out there, men not terrified of commitment? Not burnt so many times that they've just given up? Men that work hard but have the time to make their significant others feel important and cherished? Men that realize time is more important than money, and a handmade card is more precious than a string of pearls? Wives, where did you meet them? More importantly, how did you keep them? How do you convince them that you won't hurt them? That you're not one of the masses who storm off and break their hearts? That you can be trusted?
I'm just a girl who wants to spoil someone instead of being spoiled. I know where the Goonies was filmed, and the original skin color of Nick Fury. I can quote Monty Python and know all the words to the Kiss Destroyer album. I sing Disney songs to cheer myself up, bowl like an idiot, and find joy in the small things. I love action movies, The Office, giving massages and surprising people with picnics and treasure hunts. I enjoy the artistry of makeup, but will run outside when it starts raining without a second thought. I enjoy camping, hiking, biking. I love wrestling with dogs and getting over my fears. I make a mean lemon meringue pie and the best potato salad you'll ever taste. I push myself. I'm a workaholic. I am constantly learning, changing, evolving. I go to fancy restaurants, shopping centers, movie theatres, and yes, even the gym...all my myself.
I don't need you.
I am fine all by my kick-ass self.
But having a high-quality man in my life sure would be a lot of fun."
The End.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Matching Wits
A conversation with my sister.
"I moved almost all of my books to the new place today... they took up almost my whole car. I don't know what I'm going to do if I ever move back home."
"I have a solution for that."
"What?"
"A match."
Ass.
"I moved almost all of my books to the new place today... they took up almost my whole car. I don't know what I'm going to do if I ever move back home."
"I have a solution for that."
"What?"
"A match."
Ass.
Pieces of Meat
So, despite all of my foot stomping, tantrum throwing, and grousing about roommates.com, I did end up finding the perfect place. It is five minutes from a major highway, five minutes from a major shopping area, five minutes from a really nice gym... and... yes... I did just use the words "nice" and "gym" in the same sentence.
Some people fear dentists. Speaking in public. Clowns. Punk ass middle schoolers. Me? I am apparently afraid of good looking people on treadmills.
Once, my best friend dragged me to the gym to deal with her peach melba (...don't ask) and I agreed to go with her. It was only a small university gym, and she promised it wouldn't be terrible. After all, I was going with her. And everything with her is fun. Big fun. So much fun, in fact, that it should require a permission slip signed by a half-drunken guardian who has no clue what sort of shenanigans will ensue.
So, I went. Borrowed some clothing. Sat on the bike. Pedaled like a starving mountain lion was gallumphing behind me. Tried to fit in. But, in the end, still felt like a total moron. No, I didn't fall off the bike. I didn't slide off the end of a treadmill and smack my gluteus maximus into a wall. I didn't even almost choke myself to death on the bench-pressing rod thingie. (See? Look at me bust out my knowledge...of weight terminology.... sob...)
Anyhow.
I felt like a moron because despite the fact that I was wearing some old t-shirt, my hair in a ponytail and a pair of sweatpants....I was desperately trying to hide the fact that I was also wearing a pair of shiny, black dress shoes.
Oh my god, do you see that girl? Not only does she have no idea how to use an elliptical machine a chimp could figure out, but she has no biceps! And...wait. No, it can't be. Get a load of what she's WEARING!!! Guffaws, tales told at frat parties, cries of "no way!". Let's all toss our heads back and laugh! Aha! Oh, man. Good story, Julie.
Who's insecure? Not me. Nope.
So yes, to reiterate, gyms are scary places. Too many good looking people who don't actually need to be there. Too many people that could be looking at how lame I am. Too many veiny meat heads. Too many girls who were never awkward, ugly adolescents... or so I imagine.
Its an alien landscape. That I have decided to completely rule. Because life is too short to be afraid of stupid things. Right? Right. But, I am a glutton for punishment, thus I will put myself through feeling idiotic for a few weeks...and then, hopefully I can walk around like I own the place. Swagger in my step, a little z-snap here and there.
One day, I will be so comfortable, that instead of walking in, I can interpretive dance in. Kick-box in. Skip in, saying hi to every person, and then? Then, we will all burst into song, machines clinking and clanking in rhythm, footsteps pounding in tandem, voices high and strong! It will be Dancer in the Dark meets Lion King. It will be beautiful. Victorious. And we won't even break out in a sweat.
And THEN, icing on this particularly scrumptious cupcake, I can be one of those obnoxious girls that wears too-short miniskirts and prances around with no thighs and makes everyone want to develop eating disorders. Or throw hamburgers at her. Won't that be fun? Course, if you throw a burger at me, I'll just be thrilled. I like burgers. That's one thing that's never changing.
In fact, if I ever tell you I'm giving up red meat, I personally give each and every one of you permission to slap me senseless with a big ol' slab of beef. I may be evolving, but some things will always ring true. I will always have a dentist as a father, I will always enjoy giving presentations to crowds. I will always be amused by punkass middle schoolers. And I will always salivate over a nice piece of meat.
* I'm just gonna let you take that as you wish.
Some people fear dentists. Speaking in public. Clowns. Punk ass middle schoolers. Me? I am apparently afraid of good looking people on treadmills.
Once, my best friend dragged me to the gym to deal with her peach melba (...don't ask) and I agreed to go with her. It was only a small university gym, and she promised it wouldn't be terrible. After all, I was going with her. And everything with her is fun. Big fun. So much fun, in fact, that it should require a permission slip signed by a half-drunken guardian who has no clue what sort of shenanigans will ensue.
So, I went. Borrowed some clothing. Sat on the bike. Pedaled like a starving mountain lion was gallumphing behind me. Tried to fit in. But, in the end, still felt like a total moron. No, I didn't fall off the bike. I didn't slide off the end of a treadmill and smack my gluteus maximus into a wall. I didn't even almost choke myself to death on the bench-pressing rod thingie. (See? Look at me bust out my knowledge...of weight terminology.... sob...)
Anyhow.
I felt like a moron because despite the fact that I was wearing some old t-shirt, my hair in a ponytail and a pair of sweatpants....I was desperately trying to hide the fact that I was also wearing a pair of shiny, black dress shoes.
Oh my god, do you see that girl? Not only does she have no idea how to use an elliptical machine a chimp could figure out, but she has no biceps! And...wait. No, it can't be. Get a load of what she's WEARING!!! Guffaws, tales told at frat parties, cries of "no way!". Let's all toss our heads back and laugh! Aha! Oh, man. Good story, Julie.
Who's insecure? Not me. Nope.
So yes, to reiterate, gyms are scary places. Too many good looking people who don't actually need to be there. Too many people that could be looking at how lame I am. Too many veiny meat heads. Too many girls who were never awkward, ugly adolescents... or so I imagine.
Its an alien landscape. That I have decided to completely rule. Because life is too short to be afraid of stupid things. Right? Right. But, I am a glutton for punishment, thus I will put myself through feeling idiotic for a few weeks...and then, hopefully I can walk around like I own the place. Swagger in my step, a little z-snap here and there.
One day, I will be so comfortable, that instead of walking in, I can interpretive dance in. Kick-box in. Skip in, saying hi to every person, and then? Then, we will all burst into song, machines clinking and clanking in rhythm, footsteps pounding in tandem, voices high and strong! It will be Dancer in the Dark meets Lion King. It will be beautiful. Victorious. And we won't even break out in a sweat.
And THEN, icing on this particularly scrumptious cupcake, I can be one of those obnoxious girls that wears too-short miniskirts and prances around with no thighs and makes everyone want to develop eating disorders. Or throw hamburgers at her. Won't that be fun? Course, if you throw a burger at me, I'll just be thrilled. I like burgers. That's one thing that's never changing.
In fact, if I ever tell you I'm giving up red meat, I personally give each and every one of you permission to slap me senseless with a big ol' slab of beef. I may be evolving, but some things will always ring true. I will always have a dentist as a father, I will always enjoy giving presentations to crowds. I will always be amused by punkass middle schoolers. And I will always salivate over a nice piece of meat.
* I'm just gonna let you take that as you wish.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Runnin' with Big Dogs & Big Words
Okay brilliant ones, notice anything different here? Eh? Eh?
The title, yo! I am now, officially...an 8th grade teacher! Summon the horns and fling confetti! And then, bring my lovely, and now old, 6th graders back to me! Better yet? I don't have to teach math! Why is that exciting, you ask? Well, potentially (if I'm lucky....very, very lucky) that means I only have ONE LESSON PLAN TO MAKE A DAY! *end line dance*
I... am thrilled. Realistically, I know its still going to be a lot of work.... but I have decided that this year, this year I get to be selfish. I get to focus on me so I don't burn out. I get to take classes and try to get over my Fear of Going to the Gym. I get to write and play and go out with friends and have a life. Because the alternative = Miss J loses her mind. I don't want to end up in some fetid sanatorium somewhere.
Now ask me, Miss J, how much have you prepared for your year thus far? Um. Well, I bought a book of Yo Mama jokes that threatens to bring comedy into the classroom (yes, I did say threatens. There is no fun, no laughter, and certainly no sarcasm once you hit 8th grade). I will be using them to teach my kids wickedly fun (or as my dad would say, "bitchin' ") vocabulary. And they'll have to use the scientific method to figure out each word.
Example:
"Yo mama's so porcine, when I asked for pigs in a blanket, she got back in bed."
HA! Oh god. Its going to be awful. And hilarious. Can you imagine? All of the 8th grade teachers are going to SLAUGHTER me. You just know that every third kid is going to go to their next class and tell the joke to the teacher. ...What worries me is that some of the teachers might not get the jokes... Oh well! They know where to find me! *maniacal laughter*
And...that's about as far as my planning has gone. I have been busy, today, writing poetry for 10 hours. And eating copious amounts of rice krispie treats, and reminding myself how much I love words.
Like lugubrious and rubiate. Overzealous. Renegade. Enigmatic. Ubiquitous. Top new favorite: crepuscular. It sounds SO revolting, doesn't it? Much to my surprise, the word has nothing to do with pus, but in fact, the tendency of animals or beings being out and about during twilight. How great is that? OH! And I learned a new one-- malapropism. This is what Mike Tyson does-- confuses one word with another. When he says "I might just fade into Bolivian" that phrase... malapropism. Great huh? Bust that out at a cocktail party. Well, the word itself. Not malapropisms. If you say "I faced a lot of diversity in my life" and you meant "adversity".... then we will all ridicule you. Gladly.
And now... now, I'm going to go practice my crepuscularity and play in the rain. That's right. It is raining. Another miracle.
The title, yo! I am now, officially...an 8th grade teacher! Summon the horns and fling confetti! And then, bring my lovely, and now old, 6th graders back to me! Better yet? I don't have to teach math! Why is that exciting, you ask? Well, potentially (if I'm lucky....very, very lucky) that means I only have ONE LESSON PLAN TO MAKE A DAY! *end line dance*
I... am thrilled. Realistically, I know its still going to be a lot of work.... but I have decided that this year, this year I get to be selfish. I get to focus on me so I don't burn out. I get to take classes and try to get over my Fear of Going to the Gym. I get to write and play and go out with friends and have a life. Because the alternative = Miss J loses her mind. I don't want to end up in some fetid sanatorium somewhere.
Now ask me, Miss J, how much have you prepared for your year thus far? Um. Well, I bought a book of Yo Mama jokes that threatens to bring comedy into the classroom (yes, I did say threatens. There is no fun, no laughter, and certainly no sarcasm once you hit 8th grade). I will be using them to teach my kids wickedly fun (or as my dad would say, "bitchin' ") vocabulary. And they'll have to use the scientific method to figure out each word.
Example:
"Yo mama's so porcine, when I asked for pigs in a blanket, she got back in bed."
HA! Oh god. Its going to be awful. And hilarious. Can you imagine? All of the 8th grade teachers are going to SLAUGHTER me. You just know that every third kid is going to go to their next class and tell the joke to the teacher. ...What worries me is that some of the teachers might not get the jokes... Oh well! They know where to find me! *maniacal laughter*
And...that's about as far as my planning has gone. I have been busy, today, writing poetry for 10 hours. And eating copious amounts of rice krispie treats, and reminding myself how much I love words.
Like lugubrious and rubiate. Overzealous. Renegade. Enigmatic. Ubiquitous. Top new favorite: crepuscular. It sounds SO revolting, doesn't it? Much to my surprise, the word has nothing to do with pus, but in fact, the tendency of animals or beings being out and about during twilight. How great is that? OH! And I learned a new one-- malapropism. This is what Mike Tyson does-- confuses one word with another. When he says "I might just fade into Bolivian" that phrase... malapropism. Great huh? Bust that out at a cocktail party. Well, the word itself. Not malapropisms. If you say "I faced a lot of diversity in my life" and you meant "adversity".... then we will all ridicule you. Gladly.
And now... now, I'm going to go practice my crepuscularity and play in the rain. That's right. It is raining. Another miracle.
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