Would any of you date a young lady with a prominent tattoo that says "Daddy's Girl"?
Personally, I find it a bit creepy.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Seen at the Spa
Written on the whiteboard by a recently-delivered-of-her-first-child colleague:
That's not my breast milk in the fridge!
I loled.
That's not my breast milk in the fridge!
I loled.
Saturday, July 20, 2013
The biggest joke?
The posted 25 mph speed limit in the big Revere rotary/roundabout/traffic circle (take your pick).
AWKWARD
A couple weeks ago on a Tuesday I did a trade with my friend A., with whom I work at the spa, and received a FANTASTIC massage. I strolled into work on Wednesday night feeling like a million bucks and greeted the usual gang. A. was there, and I immediately thanked her for the wonderful massage and mentioned that I had even posted her awesomeness on the facebookenings.
Meanwhile, as I continued my effusiveness, I observed A.'s face becoming more and more, well STUFFED looking. You might even say "constipated". My babbling trickled to a halt as I realized I must have stepped in it somehow. (Not an uncommon occurrence in my lifetime, trust me!)
I quickly changed the subject and a short while later A. escorted me out the back where we could have a conversation not likely to be overheard.
It turns out that A. had been asked by L. to do a trade on Tuesday, too. But A. had put her off, telling her "[she had] something to do on Tuesday."
Yeah, that would be trading massages with moi!
And of course when I first entered the break room and started blathering about the epic massage I had received and how AWESOME A. was, L. was standing right behind me and heard everything.
I realize that I really didn't do anything wrong since A. hadn't apprised me of the situation, but I was still mighty embarrassed.
Oh, well. Awkward is my middle name.
Meanwhile, as I continued my effusiveness, I observed A.'s face becoming more and more, well STUFFED looking. You might even say "constipated". My babbling trickled to a halt as I realized I must have stepped in it somehow. (Not an uncommon occurrence in my lifetime, trust me!)
I quickly changed the subject and a short while later A. escorted me out the back where we could have a conversation not likely to be overheard.
It turns out that A. had been asked by L. to do a trade on Tuesday, too. But A. had put her off, telling her "[she had] something to do on Tuesday."
Yeah, that would be trading massages with moi!
And of course when I first entered the break room and started blathering about the epic massage I had received and how AWESOME A. was, L. was standing right behind me and heard everything.
I realize that I really didn't do anything wrong since A. hadn't apprised me of the situation, but I was still mighty embarrassed.
Oh, well. Awkward is my middle name.
Friday, July 19, 2013
All Zumba Classes are not Created Equal
*WARNING* incredibly boring blogpost ahead, consider yourselves warned!
So, I've been pretty proud of myself for heading to the local Y every Sunday morning for the past six weeks or so for a most excellent Zumba class. Doing the same thing over and over again at the gym gets really old, really fast, so I decided recently to mix things up a bit, taking yoga, Zumba, and a brutal weight-lifting class. I've always considered myself a fairly decent dancer (oh, hell...who am I kidding, *I* think I ROCK!), and I took ballet as a child and ballroom dancing classes as a teenager.
C., our Sunday morning instructor, is always cheerful and full of energy, and her class is always packed. I believe we've had up to 30 participants, which makes for a very crowded room. It's a fantastic over-all workout and I feel I'm getting my money's worth. So far I've stuck to the back of the class, but I think I've got most of the routines down well enough now that I could move up a row or so this coming Sunday.
Yesterday I was idly perusing the class schedule at the Y, and lo and behold: A Friday morning Zumba class! Perfect, I thought. I always drag my feet going to the gym, but if I know a class is scheduled, I make more of an effort to get my butt in gear.
Dear God, I should have known better.
My first clue should have been the relatively small size of the class, only ten or so people. My second clue should have been the lack of, well, people of a certain age, shall we say. Third would be that three of the participants were male. Further indications of the hell to come would have been obvious to a toddler, such as the minuscule, artfully torn, midriff-bearing, brightly colored, "ZUMBA"-emblazoned outfits most of the others were wearing. Not to mention the tanned, toned,
pumped, and buff bodies encased by said outfits. Did I mention the six-packs on display? No, I'm not talking about beer, more's the pity!
Speaking of pity... pity me, dear Readers!
The instructor, H., was friendly and up-beat, and she started the class at a high intensity. Then she turned it up to ELEVEN. I tried my best to keep up, and focused on the footwork, mostly eschewing the hands/arms.
You know, I've always thought that I could swing my hips and shake my ass with the best of them, but I was WRONG WRONG WRONG. I never knew that Zumba required twerking skills! (Look it up, Folks. My children enlightened me. *shudder*)
I was panting and sweating buckets within minutes, keeping my gaze glued to the instructors feet and her gyrating ass, totally acceptable behavior in Zumba class, I might add.
Every once in a while, I would catch a glimpse of a doughy, whiter-than-white, stiff and totally awkward middle-aged chick in the mirror, then I'd realize: Oh, yeah. That's me. Fuck.
But you know what? Even though I wanted to quit half-way through, I stuck it out to the end, mentally composing this blogpost as a coping mechanism, to distance myself from the torture. I also eventually realized that several of the folks who were madly gyrating along with H. were actually Zumba instructors themselves, which made me feel a bit better about my lack of coordination and grace. Not to mention my lack of booty-shaking skillz.
And you know something else? I'll be back there next Friday at 9:00. I can't possibly get any worse, so that means I can only get better!
GO, ME!
So, I've been pretty proud of myself for heading to the local Y every Sunday morning for the past six weeks or so for a most excellent Zumba class. Doing the same thing over and over again at the gym gets really old, really fast, so I decided recently to mix things up a bit, taking yoga, Zumba, and a brutal weight-lifting class. I've always considered myself a fairly decent dancer (oh, hell...who am I kidding, *I* think I ROCK!), and I took ballet as a child and ballroom dancing classes as a teenager.
C., our Sunday morning instructor, is always cheerful and full of energy, and her class is always packed. I believe we've had up to 30 participants, which makes for a very crowded room. It's a fantastic over-all workout and I feel I'm getting my money's worth. So far I've stuck to the back of the class, but I think I've got most of the routines down well enough now that I could move up a row or so this coming Sunday.
Yesterday I was idly perusing the class schedule at the Y, and lo and behold: A Friday morning Zumba class! Perfect, I thought. I always drag my feet going to the gym, but if I know a class is scheduled, I make more of an effort to get my butt in gear.
Dear God, I should have known better.
My first clue should have been the relatively small size of the class, only ten or so people. My second clue should have been the lack of, well, people of a certain age, shall we say. Third would be that three of the participants were male. Further indications of the hell to come would have been obvious to a toddler, such as the minuscule, artfully torn, midriff-bearing, brightly colored, "ZUMBA"-emblazoned outfits most of the others were wearing. Not to mention the tanned, toned,
pumped, and buff bodies encased by said outfits. Did I mention the six-packs on display? No, I'm not talking about beer, more's the pity!
Speaking of pity... pity me, dear Readers!
The instructor, H., was friendly and up-beat, and she started the class at a high intensity. Then she turned it up to ELEVEN. I tried my best to keep up, and focused on the footwork, mostly eschewing the hands/arms.
You know, I've always thought that I could swing my hips and shake my ass with the best of them, but I was WRONG WRONG WRONG. I never knew that Zumba required twerking skills! (Look it up, Folks. My children enlightened me. *shudder*)
I was panting and sweating buckets within minutes, keeping my gaze glued to the instructors feet and her gyrating ass, totally acceptable behavior in Zumba class, I might add.
Every once in a while, I would catch a glimpse of a doughy, whiter-than-white, stiff and totally awkward middle-aged chick in the mirror, then I'd realize: Oh, yeah. That's me. Fuck.
But you know what? Even though I wanted to quit half-way through, I stuck it out to the end, mentally composing this blogpost as a coping mechanism, to distance myself from the torture. I also eventually realized that several of the folks who were madly gyrating along with H. were actually Zumba instructors themselves, which made me feel a bit better about my lack of coordination and grace. Not to mention my lack of booty-shaking skillz.
And you know something else? I'll be back there next Friday at 9:00. I can't possibly get any worse, so that means I can only get better!
GO, ME!
Monday, July 08, 2013
Quote of the Day from my Youngest (by 21 endless, pain-filled minutes) Daughter
Said in a sepulchral tone of deepest melancholy, while contemplating her black-on-black sneakers as we're driving to weight-lifting class:
My shoes are a reflection of my soul...
I larfed.
My shoes are a reflection of my soul...
I larfed.
Who edits these things?
I just received my mental health nursing clinical placement form, which I need to fill out and return to my school as soon as possible.
Here are the errors I found on the form:
fACULTY (minor, I know, but I'm nitpicky ;).)
DISPBUSMENT (I have no idea what this is supposed to be, disbursement maybe? Is it an acronym?)
A run-on sentence:
The following information is required in order to submit your fingerprints which will be taken by human resources as part of processing your appointment or in connection with the reinvestigation required due to the risk level associate (sic) with your position.
FOLLWINTG (following)
WIEGHT (weight)
I dunno, maybe I'm being too harsh. But this IS an official form and the errors (which not only display an underlying laziness and lack of concern, but could also easily be corrected) piss me off.
Somebody is not doing his/her job. Yet getting paid for it.
Fuckers.
Here are the errors I found on the form:
fACULTY (minor, I know, but I'm nitpicky ;).)
DISPBUSMENT (I have no idea what this is supposed to be, disbursement maybe? Is it an acronym?)
A run-on sentence:
The following information is required in order to submit your fingerprints which will be taken by human resources as part of processing your appointment or in connection with the reinvestigation required due to the risk level associate (sic) with your position.
FOLLWINTG (following)
WIEGHT (weight)
I dunno, maybe I'm being too harsh. But this IS an official form and the errors (which not only display an underlying laziness and lack of concern, but could also easily be corrected) piss me off.
Somebody is not doing his/her job. Yet getting paid for it.
Fuckers.
Saturday, July 06, 2013
Context is EVERYTHING.
File this one under "Things I Never Expected to Hear my Doctor Say to Me.":
"Good thing you don't sleep naked."
"Good thing you don't sleep naked."
Tuesday, July 02, 2013
Interesting day at work.
Not only was I called The Human Rolling-pin (a good thing, trust me), but I was subjected to (too) much conversation on the brilliance of a client's child. Yeah, the mom told me how much her daughter's "photogenic memory" helped her in school. I had to bite my tongue and just nodded my head and murmured assent. Hey, I need the tip money!
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