Chicago, My Shot Glass Runneth Over!
This past weekend, I went back to Chicago, to where it all began - this blog, my adult life, my graduate school career, many of my formative sexual careers, my sleepeating disorder. After a year and a half, it was time to head back and see old friends and re-group.
There's nothing quite like going back to yesteryear, I tell you. I was welcomed with open arms, and open hearts, and all the Jagerbombs my liver could stand. It was a fantastic weekend, one that I wouldn't change a thing about.
And as you can imagine, I have a lot on my mind. Would you mind giving me a day or two to regroup? I promise I'll be back and better than ever.
The Spin Cycle and The Gang Bang - Not So Different
Two mornings ago, I missed my 6 am alarm, which sucked. I woke up at 7 in a panic, thinking I was never going to make it to the gym on time. And since it was a Tuesday, this left absolutely no excuse but to attend the 6:45 pm spinning class my sister teaches every week at my gym. Having made a serious commitment to my body (combined with my inherent need to please my sister), I decided that I would give spinning a try...again, and in spite of the fact that I find it pointless to spend an hour riding a stationary bike that never leaves the confines of the steamy, B.O.-smelling workout room of a gym.
Regardless, I went to class, and in the locker room, ran into a co-worker who asked if I was attending a lunch in her honor the next day. I gave her a tentative answer, and we briefly chatted about my ever-present fear of going to this spinning class while I waited for my sister.
I will say this though - the best part of the class (aside from the music, as my sister shares my Class A taste), was the seated/standing sprints on the bike, which eerily mimic sexual motions. It's not at all disappointing like you would think. It's really what you make of it. I mean, if you throw your head back and let out a little giggle while doing sprints, as I did, you'll not only scare the shit out of the guy on the bike next to you who's focusing ever-so-hard on making sure his seat doesn't pull an Ike Turner on his Tina Turner testicles, but you'll also be having fun. And having fun takes your mind off of the fact that you're on a bike going absolutely nowhere. Hey, if you can't be for real f*cking, get on a bike and try some "faux-king", right?Anyway, the net-net of it all is that I woke up yesterday morning AND this morning with some serious pain in the crotchal area. I mean, serious pain. It's one of the only aches I can ever remember sustaining that sitting doesn't make better - it actually makes
sitting painful.
Because I can't shut my f*cking mouth, I felt the need to tell my friend Martin about my faux-king pain on the way to lunch yesterday - the day of the co-worker's lunch. We had decided that while we couldn't actually budget enough time for a 4 hour lunch, figured that the next best thing was to stop by, pick up a to-go order, pay our respects, and head back to work.
When I told Martin that sitting, walking, running, standing, and just about anything I did was extremely painful, he reacted like the true buddy he is and laughed hysterically. And he continued to laugh all the way in to lunch.
We approached the table of 20 people as we were waiting for our order to say hello, and my farewell-gym-co-worker asked me how spinning went. Wanting to stay true to...well, the truth, I said, "Miserable," and in a very low voice - what I hoped was low enough to evade eavesdropping, I added, "I feel like I was gang-banged!"
She erupted in laughter. And so did everyone else at the table. Apparently my low voice is more like a stage whisper.
One of the other table members had a field day with this. The next thing I knew he's yelling, "You had your cherry popped by a stationary bike seat?" to 20 people at the table.
Immediately, I turned red.
Ten minutes worth of heckling and speculating about my hymen ensued.
It might be helpful to mention at this juncture that a so-called "person of interest" was sitting at the table. A person who I don't know quite well enough to classify as someone I "like", but certainly someone who has been noticed over the last few weeks and, if I have anything to do with it, I will be spending more time with in the future. Acting like a lady, of course.
Except for maybe not, since he heard me admit that a bike made me feel like I'd been gang-banged, and the raucous table laughter that followed.As if that wasn't humiliating enough, with everyone's attention focused directly on my privates, Martin then announced, "Yeah, it's true! She was just telling me about how much her woo woo hurt on the way to lunch!"
More laughter.Now, I'm not easily embarrassed, but when 20 people are discussing and laughing at your vajayjay over corned beef reubens and artichoke dip, one is likely to feel pretty f*cking uncomfortable. And that was exacerbated by the fact that my new "person of interest" had just tuned in to the annual State of the Union for the United States of My Vagina and gotten reports that it's been under attack. Orange-level alert. Pretty sexy, right?
Since then, I've been replaying the scene over and over in my head and trying to figure out a way to reverse this whole situation. Maybe it's not that big of a deal. Maybe he will look at me from now on and associate me with beauty and intelligence, not a bruised Hoo. F*ck, who am I kidding - that had to have been a dealbreaker.
So not to make light of a gang bang, but honestly - it's not so different from a spin class. At least not for me. At the end of the day, I got sweaty, an achy nether region, and truly f*cked. Which is good, because I'm fairly certain that exchange ensured that I wouldn't get laid again for a very, very long time.
It's Been A Janet Jackson Thursday
I've had three wardrobe malfunctions today.
(1) I discovered that my pants had a broken zipper as I was in the car driving to lunch with my friend Robyn. Robyn, ever the laid-back compatriot, optimistically noted that "it's a good thing you're wearing underwear, otherwise I'd be able to see all your trimmings!" I spent the rest of the day furiously pulling my shirt down in the hopes that no one would mistake my crotchal area for a turkey.
(2) At 4:45 pm, we had a cube birthday party for a co-worker in the department. My friend Laura looked over at me at one point and asked, "What's that on your arm?" I suddenly noticed a giant bulge underneath my shirt that made me look like I'd stuffed my right bicep. I reached in and pulled out...a dryer sheet.
(3) As I was coming home from work, I was unloading my gym bag, which included dirty workout clothes from this morning that I intended to bring back to my apartment to throw in the washer. I noticed a new neighbor moving in upstairs, and cordially introduced myself to her and her parents, who were helping her move. As I went to shake her father's hand, I felt something underneath my arm drop. Both the father and I immediately stepped aside and he reached down to bend over and pick it up. We both froze in horror as we realized that the only item of clothing to fall onto the parking lot surface was a pair of (worn) black satin bikini underwear.
I then, like a bumbling idiot, said, "Oh no, sorry, don't get that. It's my dirty gym underwear from this morning."
He chuckled and replied, "Wow...it's an undergarment. I'll let you get that."
And then...silence.
Good thing I haven't left my apartment since. It's obviously time to call it a day before my tits just randomly fly out of my shirt while shopping at Target.
Newsflash: Lava Lamp Liquid the Paris Hilton of Explosives
Isn't anything made in the USA anymore?
I bought a sparkle lamp (a lava lamp, but with shiny glitter) for my office cubicle a few weeks ago, because I work at an advertising agency, and for whatever reason, all advertising people tend to feel the need revert to college humor and decor as a means of proving that despite being proletariat pee-ons like the rest of corporate America, we're still cool and hip and in touch with our inner children and trends and college shit. In the three years I've worked in advertising, I've seen cubes adorned with anything from board games to N'Sync dolls to hippie tapestries to lava lamps. I've never actually seen a cube yet with a "Beer - Helping Ugly People Have Sex Since 1863" or a Jim Belushi "College" poster, but then again, I wouldn't fall over in shock if I did.
Anyway, so as I'm finally unpacking my shiny pink sparkle lamp from its packaging, a little flyer with instructions falls out. I happen to pick it up and read, and the instructions are actually for "what to do if you come into contact with the lava liquid". Yes, emergency care instructions. Nevermind that you'd have to break the f*cking lamp itself to even get to the liquid, nevermind that there were no instructions on how to put the lamp itself together (presumably this was self-explanatory, whereas First Aid is not), this was the only set of instructions I had, and this is (verbatim) what I read:
What to do if you make contact with lava liquid
WARNING
A. BREATHED IN
1. Move the patients into the fresh area.
2. If breath stops, give artificial respiration.
3. Go to hospital right away.
B. POLLUTED SKIN
1. Wash skin for 15 minute with a lot of water.
2. Take off the polluted coat & shoes, do not put them on unless they are cleaned.
3. Go to hospital away.
C. POLLUTED EYE
1. Open the eyelid and wash eye for 15 minute with a lot of water.
2. Go to hospital right away.
D. SWALLOWED:
1. If patients keep the consciousness, drink two cups of water and making vomiting, then go hospital right away.
2. If patients loss consciousness, or have shaking trouble, please do not feed anything, go to hospital right away.
I really don't need to add anything else to this, do I?I mean, who knew lava liquid was so destructive? This is like the new, hip, Paris-Hilton-It-Girl of hazardous material. Are we sure that Osama bin Laden and our friendly Muslim terrorist peeps aren't forgoing biochemical warfare and gel-based explosives for lava liquid? One would think that if coming into contact with it made you need to wash anything for 15 minute and go to hospital away would be damage enough, right? Wouldn't we all Salaam Allah out of fear of those consequences alone? Man, being a destructive terrorist sure is a lot easier than I thought.
Tangentially, reading this makes the nerd in me wonder whether the dialect of the instructions sounds more like Taiwanese-English-As-A-Second-Language, or Malaysian-English-As-A-Second-Language. I welcome your thoughts.
