Tag Archives: gross things

Another gym story

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Yesterday, after a long day being charming at a conference on how to survive a bad economy (I think “pray” was the most viable strategy), I went to a nearby branch of my gym to work away the blues. This branch is located in a very expensive and fancy hotel and shopping complex. It is definitely a “flagship” branch with all of the bells and whistles and expensive amenities.

One notable amenity is the modesty areas, where one can dress and undress in private.  A premium in a city where every square foot costs a fortune.  Yet, it did seem unnecessary in a place where only the beautiful, the buff and the European work out and parade around.  What is naked hair drying about?  Naked nose-blowing?  Naked blackberrying?  Ok, the truth is that if I receive a message on my blackberry, I want the sender to be fully clothed.  I don’t need any other image clouding my brain and destroying cells.  If someone were to email me that he or she was in the gym locker room (because, like bloggers, people will write just about anything in an email), I would stop reading and wait for about a half hour until I thought the person was dressed and then continue reading.

The worst?  Naked blackberrying while standing in front of the mirror.  

Me? I like just being regular weird and not doing any of that eccentric stuff.

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We live in a crowded city

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I went to the gym again tonight as part of my new mind-body balance regimen.  Who am I kidding?  Myself, of course.  But let me dream for another day and then crash-land into Hershey milk chocolate nuggets, take-out food and acne.  For two days, I have breathed calmly and deeply, in with nourishing oxygen, out with bad energy.  It started out great, until I realized I was breathing car exhaust and then started hyperventilating, but I digress.

In my karmatically balanced state, I walked into the locker room, certain I would rise above the bloggable moment.  Then I rationalized even a vegan sneaks a bacon rasher every now again.  I had to entertain this juicy rationalization because I have to report the bloggable moment.  I walked over to the toilet stalls to the left of the sinks.  At the sinks were two women — strangers it appears — one, brushing her teeth (bravo on the oral hygiene), the other shaving her underarms (obviously ANYthing can be done in public nowadays).

Let’s reflect on that.  Oh, and someone was eating a power bar of some sort not 5 feet away.  I guess I should have mentioned that you shouldn’t read this while eating.  My bad.  All that carbon monoxide I was deep-breathing to cleanse my body.  Hmmmm.

I happen to know where the chocolate nuggets are stashed. . . .

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The Flu that led the pigs to slaughter

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Ok, I am not a doctor (although sometimes I pretend to be among family and friends who know better).  And I don’t know much about the scientific origins of the N1H1 virus. 

I know this:  everyone is still going to call it Swine Flu.  Also, I know that I don’t want to imagine how humans got it from pigs (if that is even true).  Oops, too late.  Yuuuuuuuuuck.  Pause for composure.  Resume.

As I understand it (but unencumbered by information, knowledge or a medical degree), this strain of Swine Flu started in Mexico.  The contagion is brought about by human mobility. 

Nevertheless, some months back, Cairo decided to slaughter all the pigs in the city to protect against Swine Flu, although I find it hard to imagine airplanes full of pigs schlepping to visit their relatives in Mexico and bringing it back to Cairo.  Also, in a country with a Muslim super-majority, why are there pigs? 

Still, the irony is yet to come in this story.  After the pigs were slaughtered, the residents of Cairo were overwhelmed by garbage and unsanitary conditions.  Why? Because the pigs — among the most unsanitary of animals — ate the garbage and kept the streets clean (or cleaner).  Now, without the pigs, there is a real threat of disease from the mounds of rotting garbage.  Pigs were Cairo’s free sanitation system.  How crazy is that?

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A typical day in my life

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Crazy day on the road to Utopia.

I had every textbook stress dream a person can have.  Teeth falling out.  Not being dressed at work.  Having to use the bathroom in front of people.  Having to take an exam in a course at school I thought I dropped.  Running and never making it where I need to go.  Have I missed any?  

I woke up in a cold sweat and groggy. My partner thinks it is because she put too much garlic in that new recipe she tried last night. While the amount of garlic was indeed impressive and did require a Tums or 5, it didn’t cause my bad dreams.  Those I was able to conjure up all by myself.

So, I was exhausted when I started the day at the office.  I was able to get some work done before my computer crashed.  Apparently, everyone else’s computers worked.  Mine was the only one frozen.  Maybe it happened because I didn’t have a stress dream about it.  Note to self: Don’t get out of bed until you’ve had EVERY stress dream imaginable.

I walked to the east side to have lunch with a friend.  I bumped into the Columbus Day parade.  A sad little affair with marchers dressed up in period clothes to look like people of Columbus’s time.  If you want to parade, go to Randall’s island. Get out of my way in midtown.  Although I did get perverse pleasure in being jostled into an Orthodox Jewish man who would not otherwise touch me lest I were ritually unclean (I was not).

I did have an opportunity to pass by a prayer station.  I’m not kidding.  See?  Prayer is fine, but you think with all those who are praying, something would have changed by now.mail

I had a really fun lunch with my friend who is so hysterically funny.  Because I want to maintain confidentiality of my sources, her stories will come out over time.

After fighting my computer for the rest of the day (the computer won), I went home on the train.  There was a guy drizzling hot sauce on top of the hugest falafel I have ever seen, as he was swaying in the subway car.   Shreds of lettuce were falling out of his mouth as he ate. I needed to switch cars at the next stop.  In my next car, there was an angry child demanding “eye contact” from his mother and saying hateful things in jags and spurts. I think I witnessed a portrait of a sociopath as a young child.  They got off and a bike messenger who reeked of pot got on and everything got sooooo mellow.

A day in the life.

Off to bed.  To sleep, perhaps to dream.  (Maybe I’ll make a pot of coffee and stay awake to keep the dreams at bay.)

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What 40andover women talk/email about

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Did you ever wonder if you know someone who left the bathroom unclean after using? 

One of my dear college friends, let’s call her WF1 (wonderful friend 1) recounted the following story:

“I have an embarrassing story about the bathroom —  I was at a Sunday School meeting at someone’s house.  I needed to use the bathroom, but someone else went in ahead of me.  When she was done, I went in.  I took one look at the seat and [there was pee on it].  I was annoyed, wiped down the seat, washed my hands, and then refused to sit on the toilet.  Well, I used the toilet roll bar to steady myself, and the whole thing fell to the ground and broke!  When I came out, I just used the line my kids use and gave the innocent face “woops, sorry’.” 

How do you eat at that person’s house, let her kids touch anything in your house, shake hands?  EEeeeeewwww.

 

Do you ever wonder about the no standing sign in the toilet?

Then, some days later, WF1 saw a sign in the toilet that said “No standing on toilets.”  WF1 was confused mightily and consulted the group.

So, another dear college friend (let’s call her WF2), enlightened us:  “The ‘no standing’ on the toilet sign is probably aimed at people from countries where they use ‘non-Western’ toilets.  [There is no place to sit and one squats.]  So maybe they stand on the toilet.  I wonder if you can see their heads over the top of the stall divider?  I think standing on the toilet can damage it because they aren’t designed to take a person’s full weight. I discussed this with my husband who was perplexed by footprints on a toilet seat at work.”

I can understand being perplexed by our toilets.  A bidet still scares me.  Originally I thought it was either the most bizarre urinal ever or a place to wash your feet.  Why wouldn’t a person just take a shower?

 

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Anything goes in an epic day where nothing happens

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After meeting my sister at the gym (see prior entry), I raced home and showered and changed in time to go with my family to my sister’s house where some out of town, and newly-minted New Yorker, cousins were coming for brunch.  Before meeting me at the gym, my sister had schlepped on her bad foot to Zabars to purchase a Jewish soul food brunch extravaganza.  (We both got the food purchasing gene from Mom; too much is still never enough.) Where is my brother-in-law, you ask?  He was working on a painting assignment in his studio, but I cross-examined him and I was satisfied that he was hard at work and stressed about the painting and, more importantly, he felt guilty and undeserving of my sister’s love.  So, he was excused for the day of family activities.

Whenever our family gets together, gastro-intestinal fortitude makes its way into the conversation.  This time, a fourth generation cousin (third generation born in this country) talked about her IBS (irritable bowel syndrome).  I thought, wow, I thought irritable bowel was just a family personality trait (think about that for a second).  I had no idea that it was a medical condition.  She is a runner and cannot complete a run without — er, um — finding a bathroom (or remote area of the woods if she runs in the countryside).  We discuss Metamusil, Immodium and other products while stuffing smoked fish down our throats.  We discussed the relative cleanliness standards of most major chain stores in NYC and the value of her strengthened thigh muscles in being able not to sit down.  Still we are eating.  In fact, we have to talk with our mouths full just to get in a word amidst the chatter.

My son was very engaging until he stopped abruptly, got a bird encyclopedia (my brother-in-law is a bird nerd) and sat down to read.  My father wanted to continue talking to my son, but my son would have none of it.  He said, “Puh-leeze, Grandpa, I need some alone time to recharge my batteries.” Kids hear everything you say and some time, some place, it comes out — ZING!!!

My cousin brought homemade zucchini bread with zucchini from her garden.  I thought that I could re-gift it for our barbeque in Scarsdale later in the day, but no one would believe that I made anything like that.  Besides, it would be too much like life imitating art — or Seinfeld, whichever.  Of course, after someone tried it and thought it was delicious, I mentioned that I had really wanted to re-gift it and was disappointed that any of it was eaten and my family (jokingly, I promise you) tried to make it look whole again so I could take it.  I didn’t even watch Seinfeld (but I did hear the retelling of the episodes) and even this was too much.  But reality is crazier than any fiction. 

We had to leave this gathering to go to Scarsdale for a barbeque but by this time the migraine had overpowered the pills and I was achy and in need of a dark, quiet room.  That is not possible in my house because when my son gets into playing with his toys, it is loud like an arena.  And, he was so unhappy not to go to our friends in Scarsdale.  So were we.  I just couldn’t make it. 

I slept for awhile and then we did some errands with the car I rented so we could go to Scarsdale.  These are the kinds of errands that need a car — dropping off heavy stuff at donation places, etc.   After a few of these type of errands, my partner gave my son a choice of whether or not to go to Fairway food store (the one that is like a warehouse) to shop.  He opted not to, of course.  My partner tried to change his mind but if you give a child a choice you have to live with the answer or start negotiating.  So, I started negotiating.  He got french fries and an ice pop at dinner if he and I stayed in the car while my partner went shopping for exactly 20 minutes.  Then she remembered she had her iPod with the bird sounds game.  But no one would let me renegotiate, so I was left in the car listening to high pitched bird calls.  My migraine started to spread beyond the borders of my brain and threatened to create an epidemic of brain pain throughout upper Manhattan.

So as not to let the rental go to waste, we are going to the cemetery to visit my mom’s grave tomorrow.  My sister will bring the left-overs from brunch so we can have a tailgate.  Our family can eat anywhere.

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Blogcation Day 7

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We decided to leave the rented beach house a day early and beat the horrendous weather. 

The owner of the house has been in a constant freaked out state that people would ruin his “expensive” stuff (not to be a snob, but it was IKEA and CB2 stuff; if it were Design Within Reach I would understand it), so I took pictures of every stain we saw on his self-assembled finery.  I also took pictures of the garbage piled up. 

I even emailed him the picture of the joint that gave way on the IKEA futon in the downstairs living area.  I tried to explain to him that we didn’t cause it but we discovered it when I, 120 pounds sopping wet, felt it give way as I sat down so immediately got up.  First he heard: I put my sopping wet dog on the couch.  I told him we don’t have a dog.   Then he asked if he could get this straight — that we dragged the couch out into the rain so that it was sopping wet, got warped and gave way. Ok, ok, ok, ok.  I am going into an alternate universe.

So, I continued the conversation, mostly intrigued about how far down the rabbit hole we would go.  I told him that I took down the outdoor umbrella so it wouldn’t do any damage in the strong winds.  I told that the umbrella was also bent a little.  Then HE got bent out of shape.  We started down the road of the sopping wet dog and I told him that we never opened the umbrella because the outdoor table was rusted over and we, as a rule, don’t eat on rusted surfaces, especially without a doctor present to administer tetanus shots.  He couldn’t imagine how this could happen.  I have no idea what others did in his house, but we were clean and careful and frankly out doing stuff all the time.  I had to climb out of the rabbit hole before I would do irreparable damage to my mental health. My partner listened to my side of the conversation and thought I was insane.  Then I told her the other side of the conversation.  She wondered if Verizon charges extras for receiving phone calls from Mars.

Throughout the conversation, I had this image of the CSI: Miami team determining who did what damage so the cost could be properly apportioned to the appropriate security deposits.  I don’t even like Horatio Caine on my TV set let alone in my head.  eeeeeewwwww.   

And, we were such considerate renters.  Really. Not only did my partner SCRUB the slightly gross kitchen, but we left soap, toilet paper and paper towels for the next renters (no such amenities were afforded us) and I called to ask what I should do to batten down the hatches because of the crazy weather from Tropical Storm Danny.  We wiped down the bathrooms, stripped the beds, etc., even though there is a cleaning service (well, um, precisely because we experienced the “quality” of the cleaning service).

It is good to be home with our stuff and our urban wildlife.

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Repeat after me

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I ran into my sister at the gym.  She and I spoke during the day, so she asked, “how was the rest of your afternoon?” I started to tell her about my son’s day at camp (see other blog entry) and she said, “Yeah, I know, I read your blog.”  I am repeating myself before I open my mouth.  Then, I looked around the locker room and she asked, “are you feeling a bloggable moment?” She was reading my mind.  I didn’t have to utter a word.  Hmmm, eerie.

She  finished her work-out and I was just starting, so we kissed good-bye and I left the locker room.  After one second outside, I ran back in and caught her as she was about to go into the shower.  She said, “the guy in the midriff and the nylon short running shorts who smells?  Yeah, I smelled him on my way in.” I opened my mouth. I closed my mouth.  I opened my mouth.  I closed it.  Struck dumb.

I decided not to blog about this.  Nope I am not blogging about my slow metamorphosis into a bloggy-eyed, crazed, typing, mute.

Wait.  What am I doing?  Uh oh.  Uh oh.  Uh oh.

Sigh.

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Muscle shirts are for those with discernible muscles.

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Muscle shirts should be worn by people with actual defined muscles and then only in the gym and then only if they (guys and girls) shave their underarms.

There should be a rule that 50% of one’s body should be covered especially if one’s body mass index (BMI) is over the VPT (visually pleasing threshold). And even after 50% coverage, someone with a BMT over the VPT could trigger an IHR (involuntary heaving reaction). All in all, a public safety crisis that must be addressed immediately by Mayor Bloomberg. Imagine if a subway car full of people had IHRs because of one passenger with a BMI over VPT and less than 50% clothes coverage ratio. Not a pretty sight. In fact, I might have an IHR just thinking about it.

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