I’m envious of people who have the ability to not eat–you know, those girls who break up with their mates and emerge anew 15 pounds lighter; or the ones who simply vow to cut out drinking, gluten, or some other random food group and look fabulous in 30 days or less. When you see them, you're like “Omg, you look great!” They put on a sad face with an underlying smirk and say things like “You know, after the break up with so-and-so I was in such a horrible place. I couldn’t eat for weeks. Then I decided to take up yoga to clear my mind, and here I am!”I hate those people. Yes, envy has just turned to hate. Why? Because how come when I break up with people, it involves french fries and orange flavored craisins (my new favorite food)? Or, when I stop eating carbs for a month, how come it's only to find out that my increased protein has raised my cholesterol and now I’m a candidate for some heart disease? This "new-found body phenomenon" never ever happens to me because these people are aliens. I secretly think they are sitting around starving themselves to prove how lonely they are. They want us, the Normals, to believe that coming out of a break up leads to Jessica Biel arms and Beyonce abs. Well it doesn’t, so stop already with your lies. Yoga and a breakup alone can’t give you a fabulous body.
I tether on this line of envy and hate because there is much to be admired from someone who doesn’t eat. Shit, it’s hard. Have you ever purposely gone without eating? Do it. Your thoughts will be entirely consumed by food, and in 4 hours you’ll be so hungry that White Castle will even look appealing. People with the willpower not to eat are super human. They have focus, drive, and determination. Now, I wonder if they could get us out of this recession?
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
Shoots and Ladders
Where do I begin? So I’ve been sick for the last week–like deathly ill–hence, no blog last week. (I’m recovering slowly–thanks for asking.) Although the doctors have decided what’s wrong with me and I'm now on my way to a remedy, a few funny things happened over the course of the discovery that are worth telling. It all started last Friday...
I woke up to horrible pains in my stomach. My remedy to any stomach pain was, and will always be, exercise. I went out for a quick run to loosen the muscles. 30 minutes into the run I began to walk, and then I couldn't go on any longer. I limped back home in disgust. I proceeded to get ready for my class–my first day–and I was moving as slow as molasses. I finally got dressed, ordered a plain bagel and hot tea from Panera and headed to the conference room. I noticed my posture was more slumped forward to help to control the pain. (This did not, however, control the pain in my back from my big-ass breasts.) I spent most of the class period with my head down like a child. I did manage to tell my classmates about my stomach not feeling well and apologized profusely for my demeanor. A woman who I had never met before leaned over and whispered, “Are you pregnant?”
"No," I quickly responded.
As I was walking to the rest room I passed a nice older woman and asked if she had a peppermint (the universal old lady candy). She asked what was wrong as she reached into her purse. I told her the same details I had shared with my classmates, to which she responded, “Are you pregnant?” What is it with people and this whole pregnant thing? I mean, I’m an adult–if I was pregnant or thought I was pregnant I would not go around complaining about stomach pains when really it’s just my fetus moving around.
“No,” I replied.
“Well, how do you know?” she fired back.
"Well, because I’m involuntarily abstaining from sex," I said. She nearly turned red. Oh, NOW you're embarrassed because I said the word "sex." Well how else do you think people get pregnant?
The rest of my week seemed to go by really fast with sporadic doctor appointments, logging on to work from home, and counting my lucky stars I didn’t have the Swine flu (another major concern at the doctor’s office which was ruled out along with pregnancy). One afternoon, I was lying down for my afternoon nap when I heard a knock at my door.
“Madame? Madame? No English–please help me," I heard from the other end.
(WTF?) I looked out the peep hole. There was a woman standing there with black, bushy hair, wearing a coral blouse and black pants, and scratching herself.
“Please help–help. The baby–please help! Telephone my daughter!”
It sounded as though she was crying, but no tears were streaming down her face.
I responded from the other side of my locked door, “What would you like me to do?”
“No English, no English,” she replied frantically.
“Would you like me to call your daughter or the police?” I asked, still behind my door.
“Help, phone- my daughter, the baby. No English...” She mumbled again.
You sure know a lot of words not to speak English.
“What would you like me to do?” I said with a little annoyance in my voice.
“Help, please open, Madame.”
“I’m not opening my door,” I shouted. If I get killed, it's going to be because you had to come in here and get me, Craig’s list killer! “I can call the police," I added.
She left. 3 minutes later, she came back.
“Madame, Madame, please– the baby,” she said, this time twisting my knob.
Oh no, I’ve seen this on Law and Order.
I dialed 911.
She returned one more time before the police arrived. I answered the door as soon as the police knocked. I should add how I looked at the time–a total mess (I’m sick, remember?)–red sleep shirt, braless, ex-boyfriend's sleep pants, and hair all over my head. I cracked the door and said, “Yes?”
“Do you know the number to the management company? She locked the baby in the house,” said the officer.
“The number is listed on the building, but this is a condo building, so they would not have a key to her unit,” I replied.
He paused. "Um, so you don’t have the number?”
“No, sorry.”
5 minutes later, he started banging on my door again. This time, through the door, I replied, “Yes?”
“Can you please open the door? It’s the police.”
Why? I’m so done with this–I just want to get some rest.
As I cracked the door, he barged in. “I need to look out your window–the fire department needs to make sure they go to the right unit and she’s one floor below you.”
“Fire department–what? why? I mean, can’t they just call her daughter or break the door down?” I say confused, "The fire ladder, really..."
“Madam, I agree, but the fire department does things their way. I’m just following instructions.”
“I mean really, this just seems extreme,” I said as he raised my screen window. He then began to yell from the 9th floor to the street: “Up here, one unit down. More to the left. No. not that unit.”
The only difference between the projects and a high rise condo building is someone yelling out the window.
I was really pissed at that point. “I did not agree to this. I would like you to leave.”
“Aww, don’t be like that–you called the police,” he said, smiling.
“I called because the Craig's list killer was twisting my knob; not because I knew anything about this baby being locked in the apartment.” (Which I still have the following questions about:
1. Why were you outside of the unit without the baby? There is no laundry or trash shoot.
2. You don’t speak English, so again, where could you have been going?
3. How can you babysit for someone if you are not capable of reciting the only number you should know?
4. Isn’t "police" a universal term? Like it sorta sounds the same in most languages.)
He ambushed my thoughts: “Where did you get your mirror from?”
I woke up to horrible pains in my stomach. My remedy to any stomach pain was, and will always be, exercise. I went out for a quick run to loosen the muscles. 30 minutes into the run I began to walk, and then I couldn't go on any longer. I limped back home in disgust. I proceeded to get ready for my class–my first day–and I was moving as slow as molasses. I finally got dressed, ordered a plain bagel and hot tea from Panera and headed to the conference room. I noticed my posture was more slumped forward to help to control the pain. (This did not, however, control the pain in my back from my big-ass breasts.) I spent most of the class period with my head down like a child. I did manage to tell my classmates about my stomach not feeling well and apologized profusely for my demeanor. A woman who I had never met before leaned over and whispered, “Are you pregnant?”
"No," I quickly responded.
As I was walking to the rest room I passed a nice older woman and asked if she had a peppermint (the universal old lady candy). She asked what was wrong as she reached into her purse. I told her the same details I had shared with my classmates, to which she responded, “Are you pregnant?” What is it with people and this whole pregnant thing? I mean, I’m an adult–if I was pregnant or thought I was pregnant I would not go around complaining about stomach pains when really it’s just my fetus moving around.
“No,” I replied.
“Well, how do you know?” she fired back.
"Well, because I’m involuntarily abstaining from sex," I said. She nearly turned red. Oh, NOW you're embarrassed because I said the word "sex." Well how else do you think people get pregnant?
The rest of my week seemed to go by really fast with sporadic doctor appointments, logging on to work from home, and counting my lucky stars I didn’t have the Swine flu (another major concern at the doctor’s office which was ruled out along with pregnancy). One afternoon, I was lying down for my afternoon nap when I heard a knock at my door.
“Madame? Madame? No English–please help me," I heard from the other end.
(WTF?) I looked out the peep hole. There was a woman standing there with black, bushy hair, wearing a coral blouse and black pants, and scratching herself.
“Please help–help. The baby–please help! Telephone my daughter!”
It sounded as though she was crying, but no tears were streaming down her face.
I responded from the other side of my locked door, “What would you like me to do?”
“No English, no English,” she replied frantically.
“Would you like me to call your daughter or the police?” I asked, still behind my door.
“Help, phone- my daughter, the baby. No English...” She mumbled again.
You sure know a lot of words not to speak English.
“What would you like me to do?” I said with a little annoyance in my voice.
“Help, please open, Madame.”
“I’m not opening my door,” I shouted. If I get killed, it's going to be because you had to come in here and get me, Craig’s list killer! “I can call the police," I added.
She left. 3 minutes later, she came back.
“Madame, Madame, please– the baby,” she said, this time twisting my knob.
Oh no, I’ve seen this on Law and Order.
I dialed 911.
She returned one more time before the police arrived. I answered the door as soon as the police knocked. I should add how I looked at the time–a total mess (I’m sick, remember?)–red sleep shirt, braless, ex-boyfriend's sleep pants, and hair all over my head. I cracked the door and said, “Yes?”
“Do you know the number to the management company? She locked the baby in the house,” said the officer.
“The number is listed on the building, but this is a condo building, so they would not have a key to her unit,” I replied.
He paused. "Um, so you don’t have the number?”
“No, sorry.”
5 minutes later, he started banging on my door again. This time, through the door, I replied, “Yes?”
“Can you please open the door? It’s the police.”
Why? I’m so done with this–I just want to get some rest.
As I cracked the door, he barged in. “I need to look out your window–the fire department needs to make sure they go to the right unit and she’s one floor below you.”
“Fire department–what? why? I mean, can’t they just call her daughter or break the door down?” I say confused, "The fire ladder, really..."
“Madam, I agree, but the fire department does things their way. I’m just following instructions.”
“I mean really, this just seems extreme,” I said as he raised my screen window. He then began to yell from the 9th floor to the street: “Up here, one unit down. More to the left. No. not that unit.”
The only difference between the projects and a high rise condo building is someone yelling out the window.
I was really pissed at that point. “I did not agree to this. I would like you to leave.”
“Aww, don’t be like that–you called the police,” he said, smiling.
“I called because the Craig's list killer was twisting my knob; not because I knew anything about this baby being locked in the apartment.” (Which I still have the following questions about:
1. Why were you outside of the unit without the baby? There is no laundry or trash shoot.
2. You don’t speak English, so again, where could you have been going?
3. How can you babysit for someone if you are not capable of reciting the only number you should know?
4. Isn’t "police" a universal term? Like it sorta sounds the same in most languages.)
He ambushed my thoughts: “Where did you get your mirror from?”
“Mirror, what?” I asked, frowning.
“Your mirror–where did you get it from? It’s nice.”
Sorry, this is not HGTV’s Divine Design–you are here (and unwelcome) to do what you call your job, not to chit chat with me. I just ignore his question.
After a few more awkward moments the fire ladder approached the 8th floor. This is so crazy. All the streets below are blocked. I stopped watching–I just wanted him to leave. He finally did.
After about 45 minutes the fire department came to my door. “Miss, we have a few questions for you,” said the fireman.
After a few more awkward moments the fire ladder approached the 8th floor. This is so crazy. All the streets below are blocked. I stopped watching–I just wanted him to leave. He finally did.
After about 45 minutes the fire department came to my door. “Miss, we have a few questions for you,” said the fireman.
“Questions? I have no answers. I called the police because she twisted my knob. Look, I’m sick–I could get more rest at my office, geesh! Just leave me alone already,” I said from behind my closed door. (I learned my lesson by opening the door for the police.)
“We are sorry to bother you. I hope you have a nice day," he said.
“We are sorry to bother you. I hope you have a nice day," he said.
Finally after what seemed to be hours of trying to get my nap in I could not sleep one wink. Why does drama always find me!! "
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