Evil Holiday 2009

It may come as a surprise to you that I hate Valentine's Day ... of course, it being a surprise means that you don't know me very well. Um ... or at all. Actually, it probably means you've somehow stumbled upon this blog for the first (and perhaps last) time through some misguided google search and am now wondering vaguely whether I'm on medication. And ... welcome.

To recap for newcomers then, just a few reasons why February 14th should be wiped from existence:

1. The years of junior high/high school wondering, trying not to hope too much, that you might ... just might ... be surprised by an actual Valentine. *short pause for laughter*
2. The first time you ever had a boyfriend on Valentine's Day, he took you out for dinner ... and proceeded to explain to you at said dinner why he needed "space" [this reason should probably have been listed first].
3. The red/pink commercial overload that begins in early January pushing hearts, flowers, and chocolate in your face each and every time you enter a retail establishment.
4. After enduring a freezing, dark, depressing winter and hearing yet again that the little fur ball claiming omniscience over the weather has scuttled back into his den for six more weeks of this dismal mess, I do not also need a particular day devoted to reminding me that I'm alone, thank you.
5. The whole asinine concept that we need to have one particular day for people to tell their special someone that they care ... when that should be in practice all year long.

As far as evil holidays go, this one has been endurable. A friend, in the hope that I would refrain from causing harm either to myself or to members of the opposite sex, surprised me Friday with a lovely card and lovelier box of Hershey's Pot O'Gold chocolates.

There are few things in this world that can't be fixed with chocolate and/or ice cream. Granted, it is probably advisable not to indulge in the entire box of said chocolates in one night, but who doesn't need a good sugar buzz and dive once in a while?

I woke this morning with a headache and sense of purpose ... I had a plan. My plan was to spend money on the one person most likely to secure my happiness. Me.

Happy Evil Holiday!

In preparation for said spending, I went to see Confessions of a Shopaholic with my same chocolate bearing friend, and fell in instant like with Hugh Dancy. Of course, I now hate Claire Danes, his [current] fiancee who has an even smaller chest than me ... but I digress. The movie was cute albeit a predictable story about the ditsy girl in debt who just happens to enchant the successful boy making his own way despite having a well-known and wealthy family. You know, 'cause that actually happens. Ever. Pffft.

Happy Evil Holiday!

I wandered no less than four furniture stores today in what had become a yearly search for a piece of furniture that seats two people. I searched Furniture Row Outlet, American Signature, La-Z-Boy, and Art Van Furniture. I hate furniture shopping. Other than a used car lot, where else can you be scouted as soon as you walk in the door and cornered soon thereafter with offers of assistance and business cards? And which is worse? Being cornered like that and having to pull the "I'm just looking" plea ... or being scouted and found apparently not worth a "hello, can I help you?" at all? [La-Z-Boy can suck it for that reason.]

After much pacing and note taking, I finally found my love seat! The color is called "bark" ... I tend to think I was still a bit intoxicated from the Hershey's chocolate when I picked out the dark chocolate colored, microfiber/suede-y love seat. My baby gets delivered Thursday.

Happy Evil Holiday!

Finally, I took my post-purchase-buyer's-remorse self to Barnes and Noble and picked up an appropriate compilation of stories titled, Dates From Hell.

Perfect.

Thus ended Evil Holiday 2009.

Random Thoughts From a Weekend

I saw The Day The Earth Stood Still on Saturday. The movie was entertaining ... about midway between "That was awesome!" and "And then I got up and walked out." I did notice fairly early on that my feeling of warmth toward the cute little boy, played by Jaden Smith, had turned into a vague hope that he wouldn't make it. Why is it believed that 70 minutes of hearing a cocky little smartass talk smack to the woman who had stepped in to care for him after the loss of his parents can be completely wiped out by one whispered, "Mom," inserted at the end?

That tyke needed an alien ass-kicking.

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I saw Underworld 3: The Rise of the Lycans on Sunday. If you liked the first two, then you'll also like this prequel. Don't let the 32% rating on Rotten Tomatoes deter you. The first two films received 29% and 14% respectively. If I were a slightly more bitter or cynical person (I know, right?), I'd start writing reviews for that website. I swear 80% of the reviewers need to take a freakin happy pill.

I enjoyed the movie enough to want to revisit the first two films. Which brings us to ...

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You know how when you rent a DVD, the clerk will pop open the case to check the disk before scanning it out to you? Ever wonder why they do that? I do now. You'd think that it must be to ensure that the disk is the one you wanted to rent ... right?

Apparently not since after watching the first Underworld and readying myself for Underworld: Evolution, I was a, oh, let's say "tad" irritated when August Rush appeared in the case instead. Sadly, I was not in the appropriate sappy mood to watch Felicity follow the magic music to her long lost, now musical genius, son. Actually, I don't think I'll ever be in that particular mood.

[Hey, perhaps I'm nearer to the Rotten Tomatoes reviewer career than I first thought!]

I returned the sap tonight in exchange for the vampire/werewolf blood fest I desired in the first place.

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Finally .. and sadly ... I must also report that the battle of the Christmas tree was lost once again this past weekend. This, of course, means that I am looking at a fully-decorated, 200-light, pre-lit Christmas tree as I type. Yep. A wine-colored ribbon. Ornaments spanning 20 years.

Oh ... and the Christmas cards are still hanging up.

And ... my ceramic table-top Christmas tree, a gift from my Aunt Eula, is still on the table.

I know ... it's sad. I think there's a reason why this is the first time in 5 years that I've had a Christmas tree. I obviously have a Christmas decoration removal issue.

I believe it's called laziness.

SPASM!!!!

I feel about 80 ... no ... about 73 years old. Specifically, I feel like my 73-year-old aunt with chronic back problems.

The past few weeks, I've been taking advantage of our county employee fitness program. Different classes each night Monday through Thursday. It's been wonderful and I sat in glee last night after realizing just how tight my thighs are becoming. GLEE!

You know that glee you feel when something you've been working hard on begins to show progress. That "Oh yeah, that's right, uh huh" feeling.

Yeah.

The progress hasn't been pain free. Obviously, when you're working out and building and rebuilding muscles, there's some soreness involved. My lower back aches now and then ... it bothered me last night and during the day today. Annoying but no biggie. I thought I'd attend kickboxing tonight but perhaps take it easy on any of the moves that might put extra strain on my lower back. Often, if I have a sore muscle, a bit of exercise loosens it up, makes it feel better.

Yeah.

So, at roughly 4:50 p.m., I dutifully changed into my workout clothes in my office. My last step was to raise up my left leg to put on a sock.

How dare I do such a thing!

Such a simple, every day, BASIC movement. I lifted my leg and, for the first time in my life, actually bellowed in pain and nearly dropped to the floor. In that span of 5 seconds, I went from someone gleeful about tighter thighs ... to my 73-year-old aunt with chronic back problems. At least that was my immediate and likely (hopefully) exaggerated reaction to the pain.

Of course, it didn't help that clearing the snow off my car as I left work brought me to tears.

It didn't help that I had to slowly lower myself into my car with my hands behind my back then use my right arm to pull my left leg inside ... kinda like my 73-year-old aunt with chronic back problems.

It also didn't help that 30 minutes later I was flat on my back on the floor of my apartment with frozen peaches under my back ... at the advice of my 73-year-old aunt with chronic back problems.

According to Dr. Peter F. Ullrich ... Jr. ... lower back pain is one of the most common conditions and reasons for office visits ... and four out of five adults will experience it at some point in their lives. Well, okay ... I suppose that makes me feel less pitiful. At least I'm not by any means alone. But ... the estimate that 90% of patients with such pain will no identifiable reason, i.e., "here, let me actually FIX that for you," is just annoying. It reminds me of going to the doctor and having the amazing diagnosis of stress.

If in doubt, stress caused it.

If the words, "it's likely stress," come out of any professional's mouth tomorrow, I will cause physical harm to another.

...

Meanwhile, I have some peaches to eat.

Kickboxing with Cadets

My Tuesday night kickboxing class also takes place at the training room for our local firemen/women and last night's class had an added treat ... one of the firemen poked his head in before class and asked our instructor if it would be okay for seven of the cadets (all male) to participate.

Ooh.

Our answer to this request was a hearty "SURE" ... provided that said cadets take the front rows. *evil grin*

This experience taught me several important things:

1. Never worry about what you look like during a fitness class - believe me - everyone looks like an idiot no matter how hard they attempt to avoid it.
2. A person's ability to keep a beat is in NO WAY related to their attractiveness.
3. At some point, every woman should get to watch manly males attempt aerobic exercise to music .... MAKE IT HAPPEN!

Debut of the Doohickie with the Jingly Bits

Yeah, I should probably learn some belly dancing terminology, eh?

Monday night is belly dancing night in Justacogitating land at the moment. As noted in an earlier entry, the class, taught by Na'imah, takes place at a training room for firemen, which at times leads to awkward wanderers, feelings of silliness, and general sassiness.

I prefer to label myself sassy rather than rude. Anyone disagreeing with that assessment can suck it. *bright grin*

A coworker of mine recently returned from a trip to Egypt with an arm full of belly dancing .... uh ... doohickies with jangly bits ... you know, those wraps with the coins that you ... wrap ... around your bootie before shake shake shaking away. Hmm ... according to the wonderful Wikipedia, the proper term appears to be the ultra-exotic"hip belt" even though it's certainly more of a bootie scarf if you ask me.

My coworker had been determined to haggle the market man down to $5 (quite a bargain) per hip belt and ultimately succeeded by offering to buy everything he had left. The result? I am now the proud owner of two ... TWO doohi ... I mean hip belts ... one a bright light green and one a bright blue.

I tried out the green Monday night, relishing in the jingle/jangle. The belt absolutely adds to the experience and fun. Of course, I also quickly realized you can jingle/jangle the belt right down your derriere, rump, heinie, caboose and/or moneymaker.

I apparently need a sailor to teach me some knots.

Is It Even Possible??

You know that feeling you get right before a charley horse hits? That feeling of inevitability that leaves you afraid to move lest something be the final trigger that results in you popping up in bed frantically rubbing rubbing rubbing, crying, moaning .... um .... all in a really BAD way ... in the hopes that the painful cramping taking place will subside? Yeeeah. I just had that feeling.

In my left glute aka butt muscle.

That's a first.

I was lucky. I managed to slowly stretch and loosen and avoid the actual charley horse but it left me wondering two things:

1. Who is this Charley and what the heck did he do to his poor horse??

Apparently, the phrase "charley horse" was first used in the 1880s among baseball players! Its true origin is disputed. Some say it began with an actual horse named Charley while others claim that it originally referred to an injured baseball player who limped like one of the elderly draft horses that used to be used to drag the infield. Modern Language Association (MLA):
"charley horse." The American Heritage® Dictionary of Idioms by Christine Ammer. Houghton Mifflin Company. 22 Jan. 2009.

2. Is it even possible to survive a full-fledged, butt-muscle charley horse?

May I never EVER know the answer.

A Belly By Any Other Name ...

Life lately has made me acutely aware of my sore and/or jiggly bits. Such is life after the beginning of employee fitness classes. Each Tuesday and Thursday include kickboxing after work. The classes are taught either by Tammy, the perpetually in-shape, all-around instructor or Sadie, a young woman appropriately named (it has been suggested this is a shortened form of "Sadistic"). Consequently, this morning I find myself absentmindedly rubbing my bottom, something I should quickly find a way to avoid before heading into work and Court.

Ah, but Mondays .... Mondays are reserved for belly dancing.

I showed up for my first belly dancing class having absolutely no idea what to expect. Taught by Na'imah (not her real name - duh!), the class began with the request to rub our tummies of various sizes and to be happy they exist as those pouches of blubber that never quite go away no matter how many crunches we do are absolutely necessary for belly dancing. [I KNEW there was a reason!!!]

Now, stand with your feet a normal distance apart, i.e., you should not be able to see light through your thighs ("I am SO ready for this class!"), knees slightly bent, and "zip" up your butt.

Huh?

Use your lower abdominal muscles to pull your bottom forward, tucking it. Ziiiiip. Now use your upper abdominal muscles to lift your chest. [Feel ridiculous yet? Oh, just wait.]

Slowing begin to bend one knee further than the other, back and forth, back and forth. Now, double time it ..... okay, double time that .... and faster, and faster .... you are now doing your first shimmy. [For those who are wondering, this is at least four times faster than the potty dance.] Now, if it appears that you've descended into some sort of seizure, you're locking your knees. Never ever EVER lock your knees when belly dancing. Bad things that should only be seen on SNL happen when you lock your knees.

The class progressed and Na'imah eventually directed us to line up on one side of the room for our "attitude" exercise. [Oh, no.] We were then instructed to saunter Beyonce or model style across the room exercising our sexy, confident attitudes.

OH. NO.

Na'imah wonders why I'm shaking my head with a maniacal smile on my face and I blanch at explaining. What do I say? That embarrassment doesn't seem to quite cover the feeling I'm having? That the stupid-ass grin on my face is now sorta semi-permanent? Oye.

Two steps into my nightmare, a side door opens and three firemen wander into the room and begin to mill about. [Did I mention that the classes take place at the training center for GRFD?]

OH. HELL. NO.

I stop. Everyone else, of various shapes and sizes, has continued to saunter, to walk with attitude, across the room except for me. I'm not moving. Huh uh, no way, no how.

Na'imah again wonders at my behavior. This time I know exactly what to say. "Ya'll [pointing to the firemen] need to get the hell out."

There are some brief chuckles.

"I'm serious, I'm not moving while they're in here."

Am I being childish? I don't care.

The men can get in line with the rest of us and show some 'tude, zip and shimmy, or ... they can get the hell out. There is no in between ... there is no try ... there is do ... or do not.

Still chuckling, they left. Whew. And I painfully made my way across the room.

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Soon thereafter my first belly dancing class ended. I'd shimmied, gingered, and snapped those hips. I got into my car, patting my belly (or "pooch") and thinking seriously about purchasing one of those doohickeys you wear around your waist with the little jinglies (I probably need to get a better grip on the lingo).

The following class, I'll learn that I give good "frosting" ... oh my. This is going to be fun!