In my opinion, anyway. People with those ridiculous fauxhawks should not be allowed to have drivers licenses. Honestly, they probably should be allowed out of their house, but I realize this is a little extreme.
So I'm driving home from work today and I'm aggravated. I'm so aggravated for about 100 reasons and, apparently, everyone on I-95 has gotten the memo, and they're driving extra bad to to spite me.
Especially the guy with the fauxhawk.
I am in my fun little car, music blaring, trying to drown away the angst. It's time for me to merge onto the highway, which means that I'll slide in front of the guy with the fauxhawk (who is driving in the slow lane, so this must be what he's expecting -- people get on 95 in your lane).
He, however, clearly had other ideas and was totally and completely appalled by the fact that I'm even thinking about getting in front of him.
"I'm driving too fast for this lane, lady," I can hear him fume (picture little fumes coming out of his fauxhawk). "How dare you make me hit my breaks like I should expect to in this merging lane!"
I know, y'all. I got a lot of nerve.
So what does he do as I'm merging as any normal person would? He speeds up, nearly swiping the left rear of my car to get in the merging lane himself. Whaaaaa? Then zooms back into the slow lane, nearly taking out the left front of my car this time.
Yay, fauxhawk dude! You're now in front of me! You did it!
This is when I take the opportunity to do what any respectful driver would do... speed up and ride his cool-guy car bumper for a few seconds, of course -- and he looks at me through his rear view like I'm a crazy person!
Really, buddy? Didn't you just do that to me? Except that you added in some extras, like nearly amputating two of my car's extremities?
I mean, shoot -- it's not like he was jockeying for position in front of me in line at the grocery store and I had a cart loaded with $200 worth of groceries and file full of coupons or anything. What would he have lost be letting me merge? Two seconds?
He was probably running late because he spent too much time sculpting his hair.
Oct 7, 2009
Aug 26, 2009
What aisle are the cheese puffs in?
They're in aisle 4 -- but if you were shopping at Winn-Dixie, you'd already know that.
You'd also know what aisle the pork 'n beans are in or where to find the juice, apple juice, cranapple juice or mixed juice. Inexplicably, you might have trouble locating the pork rinds and orange drink.
You see, Winn-Dixie feels these fine, fine products are staple enough to actually make it on the sign above each aisle. Just to say "chips" and would certainly fall short of acceptable -- enough people are looking for cheese puffs that they need their own line up there.
All this is fine, but let's look at the big picture: There are, let's say, 15 aisles in Winn-Dixie. Each one gets 5 lines on their sign. You're telling me that the pork 'n beans actually falls in their top 60 selling items list so that it gets its own placard? Sure... right up there next to soap, milk and ground beef (they're the beef people, after all).
I demand to see this list. If all those juices ranked high enough to get their own billing, I demand a recount -- for Orange Drink's sake.
You'd also know what aisle the pork 'n beans are in or where to find the juice, apple juice, cranapple juice or mixed juice. Inexplicably, you might have trouble locating the pork rinds and orange drink.
You see, Winn-Dixie feels these fine, fine products are staple enough to actually make it on the sign above each aisle. Just to say "chips" and would certainly fall short of acceptable -- enough people are looking for cheese puffs that they need their own line up there.
All this is fine, but let's look at the big picture: There are, let's say, 15 aisles in Winn-Dixie. Each one gets 5 lines on their sign. You're telling me that the pork 'n beans actually falls in their top 60 selling items list so that it gets its own placard? Sure... right up there next to soap, milk and ground beef (they're the beef people, after all).
I demand to see this list. If all those juices ranked high enough to get their own billing, I demand a recount -- for Orange Drink's sake.
Aug 22, 2009
Where do dentures belong?
This is a pop quiz, folks. Sorry I didn't warn you earlier, but I think most of us will be able to pass this test pretty easily (that is, of course, unless you're the lady I saw at Publix today).
There is only one question on this test. No need for pen and paper, you can just think the answer quietly to yourself.
1. Dentures belong...
a) firmly Fixodented in your mouth, as if they were real teeth.
b) on your nightstand in a cup of fizzy whatever it is that you dunk dentures in.
c) flicking in out of your mouth like you used to do when you wore a retainer.
Now, I want to apologize to you, my dear readers. I'm sorry. This was a trick question. There are actually two correct answers -- and one of them is not C.
But you knew that. Everyone knew that, except for the nasty, disgusting, denture-flicking woman who was at Publix earlier. There I am, calmly crashing my cart into miscellaneous side bins of shit, when all of the sudden, with no warning this woman looks right at me and flips up her bottom denture.
Lady, please! That's my dinner in this cart. Now I hardly want to eat it because I'm associating with your denture display.
Anyway. Congrats to all of you who answered the quiz correctly. If you could please spread the word to your grandmas and young folks who lost their teeth do to lack of personal hygiene that C is not acceptable, I'd greatly appreciate it.
There is only one question on this test. No need for pen and paper, you can just think the answer quietly to yourself.
1. Dentures belong...
a) firmly Fixodented in your mouth, as if they were real teeth.
b) on your nightstand in a cup of fizzy whatever it is that you dunk dentures in.
c) flicking in out of your mouth like you used to do when you wore a retainer.
Now, I want to apologize to you, my dear readers. I'm sorry. This was a trick question. There are actually two correct answers -- and one of them is not C.
But you knew that. Everyone knew that, except for the nasty, disgusting, denture-flicking woman who was at Publix earlier. There I am, calmly crashing my cart into miscellaneous side bins of shit, when all of the sudden, with no warning this woman looks right at me and flips up her bottom denture.
Lady, please! That's my dinner in this cart. Now I hardly want to eat it because I'm associating with your denture display.
Anyway. Congrats to all of you who answered the quiz correctly. If you could please spread the word to your grandmas and young folks who lost their teeth do to lack of personal hygiene that C is not acceptable, I'd greatly appreciate it.
Aug 19, 2009
A million reasons why you shouldn't watch the Octomom show
Dear human race,
Do not watch this ridiculous woman on TV. Octomom -- really? If you have any faith in the human race, you'll promise me to never, ever watch this show.
Why, you ask? It's a train wreck and there's nothing we like to watch more than a good old-fashioned train wreck...
Let's start with the fact that this crazy lady is a nutcase. There are tons of woman out there who can't have children who would be awesome, amazing moms -- and this woman is somehow allowed to mass produce and hoard them? Then some friggin' network (shame on you, FOX, although I'm not surprised it was you) actually pays her some absurd about of money to be on TV.
Like we haven't had enough of her on TV.
People, you have something better to watch. As I find something to watch tonight, I'm going to purposely flip though the channels the other way so I don't inadvertently give her damn show a second of viewing time to contribute to the ratings.
And God forbid the show fizzles off after a bit. What then? I bet she squirts in a few dozen more sperm and pops out 10 or so more innocent children to ruin. That'll get her back in the media, right? In the meantime, I hope no other crazy bitches out there copycat her baby factory idea.
Besides, I'm sure there's something waaaay more interesting on, like that vegetable slicer infomercial or a blank TV screen.
And speaking of getting my panties in a bunch... maybe if Octomom would just keep hers on... Just sayin.
Do not watch this ridiculous woman on TV. Octomom -- really? If you have any faith in the human race, you'll promise me to never, ever watch this show.
Why, you ask? It's a train wreck and there's nothing we like to watch more than a good old-fashioned train wreck...
Let's start with the fact that this crazy lady is a nutcase. There are tons of woman out there who can't have children who would be awesome, amazing moms -- and this woman is somehow allowed to mass produce and hoard them? Then some friggin' network (shame on you, FOX, although I'm not surprised it was you) actually pays her some absurd about of money to be on TV.
Like we haven't had enough of her on TV.
People, you have something better to watch. As I find something to watch tonight, I'm going to purposely flip though the channels the other way so I don't inadvertently give her damn show a second of viewing time to contribute to the ratings.
And God forbid the show fizzles off after a bit. What then? I bet she squirts in a few dozen more sperm and pops out 10 or so more innocent children to ruin. That'll get her back in the media, right? In the meantime, I hope no other crazy bitches out there copycat her baby factory idea.
Besides, I'm sure there's something waaaay more interesting on, like that vegetable slicer infomercial or a blank TV screen.
And speaking of getting my panties in a bunch... maybe if Octomom would just keep hers on... Just sayin.
Jul 28, 2009
Do you HAVE to back in to park?
Seriously. I can't stand people who back in to park.
These people usually can't drive, and yet they insist on maneuvering their cars into a space backwards, craning their necks, trying to look cool with their arm slung behind the passenger seat, holding me up and inevitably parking right on -- right on the white lines, that is.
If you can't drive it, don't buy it.
And while we're there, if you can barely drive it, don't back it in.
Aaaaand, unless you have some fancy hood ornament you want to show off, don't back in at all.
There are two types of people who insist on backing in:
1. The cool guy who is no doubt gangsta. You will notice him because he's the one driving the Honda Civic. Either that, or the 1992 Nissan Sentra with rims/shiny hubcaps. Why? Why does he have to back in (and it is ALWAYS a he, isn't it)?
2. The guy driving a big truck. And by "big truck" I mean the one that the bed is too long, so his front end is sticking out of the front of the parking space. He can hardly drive this thing head-on and make it straight, let alone somehow try to slide it in in reverse. Here's a quick tip for this guy: If you park forward like a normal person (look around, yes, front-in is normal), you can actually see what you're barreling that thing into.
There is no need for this ridiculousness, people. I'm not impressed, so don't think you're showing off. In fact, we almost wrecked because you had to drive past your space, then suddenly slam it in reverse to park. Now that doesn't seem natural, does it?
That's all for now. Vroom, vroom, bitches.
These people usually can't drive, and yet they insist on maneuvering their cars into a space backwards, craning their necks, trying to look cool with their arm slung behind the passenger seat, holding me up and inevitably parking right on -- right on the white lines, that is.
If you can't drive it, don't buy it.
And while we're there, if you can barely drive it, don't back it in.
Aaaaand, unless you have some fancy hood ornament you want to show off, don't back in at all.
There are two types of people who insist on backing in:
1. The cool guy who is no doubt gangsta. You will notice him because he's the one driving the Honda Civic. Either that, or the 1992 Nissan Sentra with rims/shiny hubcaps. Why? Why does he have to back in (and it is ALWAYS a he, isn't it)?
2. The guy driving a big truck. And by "big truck" I mean the one that the bed is too long, so his front end is sticking out of the front of the parking space. He can hardly drive this thing head-on and make it straight, let alone somehow try to slide it in in reverse. Here's a quick tip for this guy: If you park forward like a normal person (look around, yes, front-in is normal), you can actually see what you're barreling that thing into.
There is no need for this ridiculousness, people. I'm not impressed, so don't think you're showing off. In fact, we almost wrecked because you had to drive past your space, then suddenly slam it in reverse to park. Now that doesn't seem natural, does it?
That's all for now. Vroom, vroom, bitches.
Jun 27, 2009
Today was Jesus day at the beach
The weekends are my relax time. I have three things I like to do on my days off (and when I get all three in, I call it the "perfect trifecta" -- yes, I'm a dork): go to the gym, go to the beach, go to the mall.
For the record, I'm only 2 for 3 today, but anyway.
After the gym, I change directly into my Tar-jay bikini and head over to the beach. I'm driving down Hillsboro Blvd. (major road, leads to the beach) when I'm all of the sudden assaulted by brake lights. God damnit (oops), why are we braking? I'm trying to get to the beach!
Slowly, we chug along, and eventually are herded into just one lane by Mr. Officer at the next available intersection. "What's going on here?" I wonder as I cattle my Beemer in with the rest of the brakers. "I don't see an accident..."
But then I see them.
All 200 (at least) Jesus Freaks parading down Hillsboro, spilling off the sidewalk and into the lane of street that we've just been herded away from. They are parading (boringly, I might add -- no floats, bands, Santa Claus, nothing) toward the beach, holding up traffic and whatnot.
Let me stop for one second and qualify my right to analyze this: As a member myself of an often-made-fun-of group (I'm a card-carrying Crazy Cat Lady, thank you very much), I feel that I'm allowed to have fun at the expense of other, um, special groups. Now, to continue...
They are all wearing matching white tees with iron-on Jesus transfers. It's mostly children. They don't seem to be enjoying themselves (maybe because it's approximately 147 degrees out?). The cops are escorting them. Did I mention they are holding up traffic?
Fine. I pass them, swerving defiantly back into the right lane, and proceed to the beach. I park. I grab my beach chair (after first unloading the two giant bags of cat food that are on top of it in my trunk) and start walking towards my mecca.
And then I hear it -- is that a band? Great, there's some outdoor concert, I think.
And then I really hear it -- it's friggin' gospel music! The Jesus Freaks are coming, and they're going to be RIGHT HERE singing and praising while I'm trying to relax. Oh, iPod, where for art thou?
Anywhos, I suffer through. It could be worse -- it's in Portugeuse so I can't understand it, so that's at least a little better. I go about my beaching, relatively unbothered (they are congregated in the parking lot, not right there on the sand with me) until the heavens open up and it starts raining.
For the record, I'm only 2 for 3 today, but anyway.
After the gym, I change directly into my Tar-jay bikini and head over to the beach. I'm driving down Hillsboro Blvd. (major road, leads to the beach) when I'm all of the sudden assaulted by brake lights. God damnit (oops), why are we braking? I'm trying to get to the beach!
Slowly, we chug along, and eventually are herded into just one lane by Mr. Officer at the next available intersection. "What's going on here?" I wonder as I cattle my Beemer in with the rest of the brakers. "I don't see an accident..."
But then I see them.
All 200 (at least) Jesus Freaks parading down Hillsboro, spilling off the sidewalk and into the lane of street that we've just been herded away from. They are parading (boringly, I might add -- no floats, bands, Santa Claus, nothing) toward the beach, holding up traffic and whatnot.
Let me stop for one second and qualify my right to analyze this: As a member myself of an often-made-fun-of group (I'm a card-carrying Crazy Cat Lady, thank you very much), I feel that I'm allowed to have fun at the expense of other, um, special groups. Now, to continue...
They are all wearing matching white tees with iron-on Jesus transfers. It's mostly children. They don't seem to be enjoying themselves (maybe because it's approximately 147 degrees out?). The cops are escorting them. Did I mention they are holding up traffic?
Fine. I pass them, swerving defiantly back into the right lane, and proceed to the beach. I park. I grab my beach chair (after first unloading the two giant bags of cat food that are on top of it in my trunk) and start walking towards my mecca.
And then I hear it -- is that a band? Great, there's some outdoor concert, I think.
And then I really hear it -- it's friggin' gospel music! The Jesus Freaks are coming, and they're going to be RIGHT HERE singing and praising while I'm trying to relax. Oh, iPod, where for art thou?
Anywhos, I suffer through. It could be worse -- it's in Portugeuse so I can't understand it, so that's at least a little better. I go about my beaching, relatively unbothered (they are congregated in the parking lot, not right there on the sand with me) until the heavens open up and it starts raining.
Jun 23, 2009
Things you can't do if you burn the shit out of your thumb
Extreme cooking tip #1: That thing you just pulled out of the oven? It's friggin' hot.
Really hot. In fact -- and I learned this the hard way -- I don't recommend touching it. Your thumb will hurt... bad. And as if hurting didn't suck enough, there will now be things that you will find you just can't do anymore.
So I bring you my list of things I can't do because I burned the shit out of my thumb:
1. Button my pants.
2. Turn my key to start my car.
3. Release the emergency brake.
4. Fasten my bra.
5. I can't wait to blow dry and use the flat iron on my hair tomorrow...
6. Use the mouse. You'd be surprised how much your thumb is involved. (Try it.)
7. Crochet that cute duckie I was working on (Shut up. I'm going to make someone a faaabulous grandma one day.)
8. Take my finger out of the ice water.
9. Type. Not very well at least. Friggin' space bar gets me every time.
10. Sleep, probably. Come on, Advil!
However, there is one thing that doesn't seem to be giving me any problems... This glass of wine.
Really hot. In fact -- and I learned this the hard way -- I don't recommend touching it. Your thumb will hurt... bad. And as if hurting didn't suck enough, there will now be things that you will find you just can't do anymore.
So I bring you my list of things I can't do because I burned the shit out of my thumb:
1. Button my pants.
2. Turn my key to start my car.
3. Release the emergency brake.
4. Fasten my bra.
5. I can't wait to blow dry and use the flat iron on my hair tomorrow...
6. Use the mouse. You'd be surprised how much your thumb is involved. (Try it.)
7. Crochet that cute duckie I was working on (Shut up. I'm going to make someone a faaabulous grandma one day.)
8. Take my finger out of the ice water.
9. Type. Not very well at least. Friggin' space bar gets me every time.
10. Sleep, probably. Come on, Advil!
However, there is one thing that doesn't seem to be giving me any problems... This glass of wine.
May 31, 2009
I don't hate my neighbors
Oh, shoot. Typo up there in the title. I have no idea how that "don't" got in there...
Reasons why I hate the people upstairs and diagonal from me:
1. If I want to go to a Brazilian concert, I will. However, it's 11:00 a.m. (thank GOD I'm not hung over) and all I here is this friggin' crap booming through my walls, my ceiling and my bones. And they're not even directly connected to my apartment. I feel so bad for the nice couple that lives next door from me and directly below them.
2. Your barbeque should not be plastic twisty-tied to your patio railing. Wait... it shouldn't? No. You should not have your el-cheapo barbeque grill sitting on top of a jumbo plastic paint bucket that is plastic-tie strapped to your railing. I can't quite put my finger on why I feel this way, but I'm sure it has something to do with LIGHTING THE WHOLE DAMN BUILDING ON FIRE because of your pollo and carne.
3. Playboy magazines do not belong on your dashboard. Well, maybe they do, I don't know. But every time I walk past their work van (see #4), I'm disgusted. I mean, there are children living here. And why is that thing in your car anyway? Never mind. I don't want to know -- and that's why this is on my list. Keep that magazine in your damn bathroom or under your bed or something. NOT in your car for all to see what you do in your car.
4. The work van (eww) is overflowing with garbage (literally). Not a day passes that I don't find a gas station hot dog holder or some other dirt kind of litter right where the van was parked. Seriously? We all live here. Your garbage can can't be more than 15 steps from your car. Don't throw nastiness on the ground. No one simply drives by here and throws crap out of their car -- it's someone that lives here -- and I'm not naming names, but they play their friggin' Brazilian music too loud, have a barbeque rigged to their patio rails and play with themselves in their car.
Just sayin.
Reasons why I hate the people upstairs and diagonal from me:
1. If I want to go to a Brazilian concert, I will. However, it's 11:00 a.m. (thank GOD I'm not hung over) and all I here is this friggin' crap booming through my walls, my ceiling and my bones. And they're not even directly connected to my apartment. I feel so bad for the nice couple that lives next door from me and directly below them.
2. Your barbeque should not be plastic twisty-tied to your patio railing. Wait... it shouldn't? No. You should not have your el-cheapo barbeque grill sitting on top of a jumbo plastic paint bucket that is plastic-tie strapped to your railing. I can't quite put my finger on why I feel this way, but I'm sure it has something to do with LIGHTING THE WHOLE DAMN BUILDING ON FIRE because of your pollo and carne.
3. Playboy magazines do not belong on your dashboard. Well, maybe they do, I don't know. But every time I walk past their work van (see #4), I'm disgusted. I mean, there are children living here. And why is that thing in your car anyway? Never mind. I don't want to know -- and that's why this is on my list. Keep that magazine in your damn bathroom or under your bed or something. NOT in your car for all to see what you do in your car.
4. The work van (eww) is overflowing with garbage (literally). Not a day passes that I don't find a gas station hot dog holder or some other dirt kind of litter right where the van was parked. Seriously? We all live here. Your garbage can can't be more than 15 steps from your car. Don't throw nastiness on the ground. No one simply drives by here and throws crap out of their car -- it's someone that lives here -- and I'm not naming names, but they play their friggin' Brazilian music too loud, have a barbeque rigged to their patio rails and play with themselves in their car.
Just sayin.
Feb 5, 2009
Maybe she's allergic to her coat
So we're going to the Sweet Tomatoes for lunch today. (I looove Sweet Tomatoes -- there's a buffet, macaroni and cheese, bread, dessert, macaroni and cheese... When I die, I want to go to Sweet Tomatoes.)
Anyway, we're walking up when I see this lady coming out the side door, and she's wearing the most ridiculous dark brown, floor-length mink coat. We live in Florida. Sure it's cold, but it's like 60-degrees cold... nothing to kill 250 cute little minks over. I'm not even wearing a light jacket.
That aside (for a second), she doesn't look like this is the kind of coat she can afford (with apologies to those who live in lavish double-wides, this woman is straight up pimped-out trailer trash), which makes it even more ridiculous. Please don't wear a gaudy mink coat if you can't afford hair product. Also, leave said ridiculous coat that you inherited from your great grandmother and costs more than your car at home from now on as long as you live in South Florida.
Whatever. Getting to the real reason I called: This train wreck can't stop sneezing. I mean, at least 15 times while simply crossing one lane of parking lot.
To which I very loudly comment to my friend: Maybe she's allergic to her fucking coat.
I hope she heard me.
Anyway, we're walking up when I see this lady coming out the side door, and she's wearing the most ridiculous dark brown, floor-length mink coat. We live in Florida. Sure it's cold, but it's like 60-degrees cold... nothing to kill 250 cute little minks over. I'm not even wearing a light jacket.
That aside (for a second), she doesn't look like this is the kind of coat she can afford (with apologies to those who live in lavish double-wides, this woman is straight up pimped-out trailer trash), which makes it even more ridiculous. Please don't wear a gaudy mink coat if you can't afford hair product. Also, leave said ridiculous coat that you inherited from your great grandmother and costs more than your car at home from now on as long as you live in South Florida.
Whatever. Getting to the real reason I called: This train wreck can't stop sneezing. I mean, at least 15 times while simply crossing one lane of parking lot.
To which I very loudly comment to my friend: Maybe she's allergic to her fucking coat.
I hope she heard me.
Jan 18, 2009
Smile, a-holes.
Did someone Sharpie something awful on my forehead? Are my boobs so freakin' ginormous that you can't look at me straight or, for that matter, look at me at all? Do I have a third boob I don't know about?
Seriously, why is it that most of us are so rude that we can't even acknowledge or smile when we walk past each other? It's not like I'm asking you to have a conversation with me. I don't care what your kids' names are, what you're name is or even how you're doing... I'm saying: Just smile.
Here's the scenario: We're both walking towards each other. Maybe we're in a hallway, maybe we're outside both going for a walk or run, maybe we're coming in/going out of the grocery store. Either way, you've seen me coming for at least 10 steps now -- and you are making a conscious effort to start straight forward; God forbid we make eye contact... because then you'd have to acknowledge me. God forbid! Oh, the horror!
Are you too good for me? That bitch is smiling at me... she's got a lot of nerve!
Breaking news: You're the bitch.
A simple smile is friendly. It's common courtesy. I'm right here, asshole -- why do you feel the need to ignore me? It's just rude, and even ruder if I smile at you and you proceed to ignore me.
You know what? Maybe you're right, assholes. Keep to yourselves. Stay in your bubbles. But one day I hope someone actually Sharpies your head or you grow that third boob, and I happen to walk by you then -- with the biggest damn smile on my face you've ever seen.
Seriously, why is it that most of us are so rude that we can't even acknowledge or smile when we walk past each other? It's not like I'm asking you to have a conversation with me. I don't care what your kids' names are, what you're name is or even how you're doing... I'm saying: Just smile.
Here's the scenario: We're both walking towards each other. Maybe we're in a hallway, maybe we're outside both going for a walk or run, maybe we're coming in/going out of the grocery store. Either way, you've seen me coming for at least 10 steps now -- and you are making a conscious effort to start straight forward; God forbid we make eye contact... because then you'd have to acknowledge me. God forbid! Oh, the horror!
Are you too good for me? That bitch is smiling at me... she's got a lot of nerve!
Breaking news: You're the bitch.
A simple smile is friendly. It's common courtesy. I'm right here, asshole -- why do you feel the need to ignore me? It's just rude, and even ruder if I smile at you and you proceed to ignore me.
You know what? Maybe you're right, assholes. Keep to yourselves. Stay in your bubbles. But one day I hope someone actually Sharpies your head or you grow that third boob, and I happen to walk by you then -- with the biggest damn smile on my face you've ever seen.
Jan 3, 2009
Top 10 Signs You're A New Year's Resolutioner at the Gym
1. You have a beach towel.
This could be Mickey & Minnie, some Polo Sport one from the mid '90s or something loud, splashy and pink. Either way, you're just kind of dragging it around, not really knowing what to do with it, except that you know you should have a towel at the gym. Here's a tip: You wipe your nasty sweat off the machines with it.
2. You're wearing jean shorts.
Ah... this is one of my favorites. Ladies, yours are inevitably cutoffs because, let's face it, that's the last time you wore shorts. Fellas, it doesn't really matter what yours are; guys don't wear jean shorts anymore.
3. You are chugging Gatorade, Red Bull or Vitamin Water like it's your job.
And it's not like you're thirsty... you haven't done anything. But you're at the gym, so clearly you need to hydrate. Excessively. Like, more than any of us who are actually sweating and possibly working up a thirst. Free tip: All those drinks have many calories, so you're technically taking in more calories by going to the gym. Tip #2: It's called water.
4. You have a CD Discman.
I'm not sure I need to explain this one any further. But I will say that they have these really cool things nowadays called Mp3 players and iPods which don't weigh 17 pounds and don't even skip! Imagine that... no skipping!
5. You do a nifty quad stretch in between every exercise.
This is where you just finished "a set" on that cute machine where you twist back and forth at a feverish pace because you think it's going to get rid of your love handles, and then you stand next to the machine, death-grip it and pull your ankle up behind you. Editor's note: You did not just work that muscle.
6. You are gnawing away on a Powerbar.
See #3: Gatorade, chugging.
7. You get on the bike and don't understand why it won't turn on when you press the buttons.
I know, this one's a little tricky, and I almost feel unfair adding it in here. But, surprise, it's not broken! Oh, and moving to the next one won't help; it's not broken either. Tried-and-true tip: Start peddling, and the pretty screen with magically light up.
8. You are reading the instructions on every machine.
This is not wrong, and I don't fault you for it -- at least you're trying to do it right (see #5: quad stretch, nifty). However, you are taking up way to much of my precious time, and my nice, neat compact 30-minute workout is somehow now ticking and tocking longer and longer, and I'm not getting up earlier in the morning to accommodate for your decoding of the torture devices. Gym-goer tip: Please get a personal trainer. They're free for a session or two for new gym members, and they'll explain the scary machines in plain English.
9. You grab a smoothie from the juice bar on your way out.
Again with the healthy eating and drinking... Please, once again refer to #3: Gatorage, chugging and #6: Powerbar, gnawing. You know you're going to eat as soon as you get home, so what is this extra feeding for?
10. You are in the waaaay back of the class.
I understand you don't want to be in the front because people will see you, but here's one you may not have thought of: We can see you even better when you're in the back. That's right, those rooms have glass walls in the back, and you know what's on the other side of the glass? The entire rest of the gym... full of people who have nothing to do between sets but watch you almost bust your ass. Tippy tip: Try the middle for two reasons: a) You should be closer to the front so you can actually see the teacher and learn how to do it, and b) We're too busy watching the back people to find you in the middle.
Have any more to add? Please leave a comment. I love these.
Oh, and Happy New Year!
This could be Mickey & Minnie, some Polo Sport one from the mid '90s or something loud, splashy and pink. Either way, you're just kind of dragging it around, not really knowing what to do with it, except that you know you should have a towel at the gym. Here's a tip: You wipe your nasty sweat off the machines with it.
2. You're wearing jean shorts.
Ah... this is one of my favorites. Ladies, yours are inevitably cutoffs because, let's face it, that's the last time you wore shorts. Fellas, it doesn't really matter what yours are; guys don't wear jean shorts anymore.
3. You are chugging Gatorade, Red Bull or Vitamin Water like it's your job.
And it's not like you're thirsty... you haven't done anything. But you're at the gym, so clearly you need to hydrate. Excessively. Like, more than any of us who are actually sweating and possibly working up a thirst. Free tip: All those drinks have many calories, so you're technically taking in more calories by going to the gym. Tip #2: It's called water.
4. You have a CD Discman.
I'm not sure I need to explain this one any further. But I will say that they have these really cool things nowadays called Mp3 players and iPods which don't weigh 17 pounds and don't even skip! Imagine that... no skipping!
5. You do a nifty quad stretch in between every exercise.
This is where you just finished "a set" on that cute machine where you twist back and forth at a feverish pace because you think it's going to get rid of your love handles, and then you stand next to the machine, death-grip it and pull your ankle up behind you. Editor's note: You did not just work that muscle.
6. You are gnawing away on a Powerbar.
See #3: Gatorade, chugging.
7. You get on the bike and don't understand why it won't turn on when you press the buttons.
I know, this one's a little tricky, and I almost feel unfair adding it in here. But, surprise, it's not broken! Oh, and moving to the next one won't help; it's not broken either. Tried-and-true tip: Start peddling, and the pretty screen with magically light up.
8. You are reading the instructions on every machine.
This is not wrong, and I don't fault you for it -- at least you're trying to do it right (see #5: quad stretch, nifty). However, you are taking up way to much of my precious time, and my nice, neat compact 30-minute workout is somehow now ticking and tocking longer and longer, and I'm not getting up earlier in the morning to accommodate for your decoding of the torture devices. Gym-goer tip: Please get a personal trainer. They're free for a session or two for new gym members, and they'll explain the scary machines in plain English.
9. You grab a smoothie from the juice bar on your way out.
Again with the healthy eating and drinking... Please, once again refer to #3: Gatorage, chugging and #6: Powerbar, gnawing. You know you're going to eat as soon as you get home, so what is this extra feeding for?
10. You are in the waaaay back of the class.
I understand you don't want to be in the front because people will see you, but here's one you may not have thought of: We can see you even better when you're in the back. That's right, those rooms have glass walls in the back, and you know what's on the other side of the glass? The entire rest of the gym... full of people who have nothing to do between sets but watch you almost bust your ass. Tippy tip: Try the middle for two reasons: a) You should be closer to the front so you can actually see the teacher and learn how to do it, and b) We're too busy watching the back people to find you in the middle.
Have any more to add? Please leave a comment. I love these.
Oh, and Happy New Year!
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