My flight arrived almost on time, which was nice, considering that it left 45 minutes late. I actually managed to sleep on the flight. "Sleep" is probably relative. I dozed for a few minutes, interrupted only by what I thought was the person behind me kicking my chair. It dawned on me at some point that it was actually turbulence I was experiencing. Then the smell of dinner, yes, DINNER being served after midnight roused me again. I wasn’t going to eat, but I couldn’t not eat since it smelled so good. And it actually was!
Then back to sleep for another couple of hours. More turbulence woke me up about two hours later. Not that it had been a sound sleep, mind you, what with all the trying to get comfortable in the world’s most uncomfortable airplane seat, but at least it was sleep.
Going through customs was much easier than I anticipated. My baggage was easy to find, even though my duffel bag had fallen off the conveyer belt BEHIND it, so I had to do some fancy maneuvering to get to it, but I’m glad I found it, or else I would’ve thought the airlines lost it.
I found a place to get some change for the phone, then found another place to buy a phone card so I could call Linda and let her know I made it safely. It was 4:00 a.m. her time, so I didn’t keep her up long. Then I found the pay phone so I could call the hotel for them to send a car. Negotiating my way around the airport I never once had to resort to English. I don’t know that it would have helped me anyway. My Spanish returned quickly, and I like to think that everyone was impressed with how well this gringa was speaking with them. Granted, some people don’t speak as clearly as I would like, but since I’m blonde, I can get away with asking them to repeat themselves two or three times if I need to. They just smile at me sympathetically.
And now, here I am. I managed to drop off to sleep around 6:30, but it was constantly interrupted by a rooster crowing (do they keep chickens for the eggs here at the hotel?); some sort of construction banging-hammering going on above me, next door to me, I don’t know where, but it was loud; and the constant tramping of feet, stomping feet, really, outside my room in the non-carpeted hallway.
At 9:30 I was woken up for good by a good solid knock on the door. I thought it might be housekeeping, but it seemed a bit early for that considering check out time isn’t until 1:00. I asked who it was, and it was another woman from my group come to introduce herself to me since the front desk had so thoughtfully and considerately given her my room number. She felt bad that she had woken me up, but not so bad that she felt she couldn’t sit down and chat for a few minutes. And chat she did. I could hardly get a word in edgewise, but that’s actually okay, because the couple of times I did, I realized how atrociously awful my breath was.
The front desk had actually told me when I got here that she was here, so it wasn’t completely unexpected. Wait, yes it was. Her showing up at my room, that is. But she seems nice enough. Her name’s Cecilia, but she goes by Ceil. She’s from Texas and is a Pre-K teacher and a high school Spanish teacher. She really didn’t shut up for very long to let me talk much about myself, so I get an earful of her Texas-sized accent. It will be interesting to hear how her Texas accent translates into Spanish. One off-putting thing about her, besides the non-stop talking, is that she was wearing sunglasses the whole time in my very sun-dark room. I thought it was strange she didn’t take them off, but perhaps a good reason will be revealed later on.
I’ve just finished breakfast and am taking advantage of the 10 quetzal price for 30 minutes of internet access. Don’t know when I’ll have this again.
I should maybe go exploring or something, but this part of town doesn’t look particularly inviting, although the hotel is delightful. It’s very cute and quaint. The beds are teeny-tiny. Oh! There’s even a bidet in the bathroom. I’ve never had access to one before, so I thought I’d give it a whirl (no pun intended). It’s a handy device to have around when you’ve forgotten to shave your legs and don’t want to get back in the shower! I hope all is safe and well for you all whatever neck of the world you happen to be in right now. My neck of the world is beautiful. It’s different than the one I was in yesterday, which makes it all that muc
Thursday, June 9, 2005
Wednesday, June 8, 2005
This Is It
I don't know what I was thinking 7 months ago when I started planning this trip, but being as my flight leaves in four and a half hours, I think it's too late to back out now. Oh my goodness. Four? Hours???? Hijole.
I think I wish I had a valium. I've traveled before, but there's always either been someone with me or someone I know meeting me on the other side. I've never gone to an unknown place before, by myself, with no one but myself to take care of me.
I know I'll be fine. I'm just a worrier. If I could just breathe, I'd be better.
Okay, this is it. *deep breath* Here I go. See ya on the flip side.
I think I wish I had a valium. I've traveled before, but there's always either been someone with me or someone I know meeting me on the other side. I've never gone to an unknown place before, by myself, with no one but myself to take care of me.
I know I'll be fine. I'm just a worrier. If I could just breathe, I'd be better.
Okay, this is it. *deep breath* Here I go. See ya on the flip side.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Guatemala Checklist
Or Things I've already done to get ready and still need to do and am so excited about it all I can hardly contain myself so I'd better make a list before I forget!
Already Done
Airplane ticket. Check. Purchased back in February and modified two weeks ago when I realized that United Airlines really wasn't kidding when they said they expected me to take a little commuter plane from Santa Ana to LAX then get on the real plane to fly from LAX to La Aurora International Airport. Why, oh why, United Airlines, would I want to drive 40 miles out of my way to get on a wee plane to fly to the airport that I asked for when trying to book online?
Shoes. Check. One pair of hiking boots, an inexpensive pair of tennis shoes and some flip flops.
Backpack Check. Purchased last week at the local Army/Navy surplus store for only $40. Internal frame, lots of space, already filled with stuff I plan on taking that I don't wear in normal life.
Clothes. Check. Four pair of cargo pants and one pair of speciality hiking pants that are supposed to wick moisture away. Wick wick wick wick. Yes, I bought new clothes for the trip because I wanted things that are lightweight that I don't care about getting dirty, etc., since I anticpate some rolling around in dirt whilst digging. Yes, it's making Linda and Cim crazy that I haven't been buying "girly" clothes. Linda said to me the other day, "I'll be glad when the Guatemala years are over so you can buy girly things again."
Portable Shower. Check. This is encouraged for each person because apparently the showers won't be available in the afternoons when we get back from work. Fill the 5 gallon shower thingy up with water before leaving in the morning, let the sun do its thing, then have a nice warm shower in the afternoon.
Lightweight towel. Check. This looks like one of the towels divers use in competition when they just get out of the pool. I hope it's enough. Maybe I should bring something else too? I'll have to ponder that.
Sunscreen. Check. For face and body.
Base tan. Check. Well, almost check. As much of a base tan as a whitey like me can be expected to have. I've actually been going to a tanning booth for a couple of months. (Don't hurt me, Qwendy!) Apparently, "base tan" for me means "more freckles."
Sleeping bag. Check. Not because I'll need it to keep warm, but because they recommend it for padding. Sounds like a camp cot situation. My back will be so pleased. I just need to remember to get it out of the garage. The sleeping bag, not my back.
Pillow. Check. It's one of those small, squooshy ones.
Cameras. Check. One digital, one 35mm, one video.
Camera bag for all three cameras. Check.
Hotel reservations. Check. For the extra two days I'm staying to do some sightseeing on my own.
Water carrier. Check. I got one of those camel back thingies that holds 1.5 liters. Should be enough to get me through a work day. I hope.
Bag to carry things that's not a backpack. Check. I didn't want a backpack because that just makes me hot and sweaty on my back, plus I've already got the whole camelback thing. I wanted a shoulder bag that would hold my things for a day out in the field and not be too bulky. I just love the local Army/Navy surplus store!
Sundry items. Check. Including anti-bacterial wipes, first aid kit, extra aspirin, spray-on bandages, blister prevention stuff, baby powder, travel size shampoo et al bottles, etc. Need to make sure the first aid kit has everything in it I need. (See below).
Laundry soap. Check. Got three mini boxes last night out of the vending machine at my local landermat.
Immunizations. Check. I've already gotten shots for Hepatitis A, polio, and typhoid. I just got a tetanus shot last year, so that's up to date.
Things I Still Need to Get/Remember to Bring
Small pillowcase for small squooshy pillow.
Toilet paper. While I have toilet paper, I just need to remember to bring a few rolls.
Mint Chocolate Pria bars. I imagine these will come in handy.
Local Currency. I have a call into the local Thomas Cook store now to see if they need to order me some Guatemalan money, I think it's called quetzals, or if they have some on hand.
Cell phone -- will it work internationally, or do I leave it at home? I imagine it'll be the latter option.
Palm Pilot. Much lighter than a laptop, yet will enable me to keep good notes of my trip. I have one of those cool foldable keyboards for it. I already have one, I just need to remember to pack it.
Palm Pilot charger.
Film. Just in case a video camera and digital camera aren't enough, I'm bringing my 35mm camera also.
Mailing labels. To send postcards to people while I'm there without needing to rely on memorizing addresses or carrying an address book with me. Of course I'll have my Palm with me, but labels will be easier.
A book to read on the airplane. Don't know yet which one, but it must be a paperback and long so as to keep me occupied.
Need to make hotel reservations for the day I get in. My flight arrives at 4:00 in the morning or something nasty like that, and our group isn't meeting until 2:00 in the afternoon, and I don't want to just hang out at the airport that whole time.
Electricity conversion thingy. Need to find out what type to get. Which leads to....
Decide if I should bring a curling iron and blow dryer or not. My hair is straight and flat without them, which may be just fine. But will I be able to live with myself??? That's the burning question. Yes, I'm that vain.
I need to read the books on Maya civilizations that are on the recommended reading list that I bought months ago but haven't really cracked open yet because I prefer fiction to non-fiction.
Malaria prophylatic. Get your mind out of the gutter. That's what they call it in the medical field. It means "protection against," in case you were wondering. And I need to start taking it two weeks before I leave (today!) and once each week while I'm down there, and after I get back.
Immodium A-D. Must. Get. This.
Pack bathing suit and shorts.
Socks. Of the wicking variety. Wick wick wick wick.
Waterproof my hiking boots.
Pack triangular bandages.
Pack butterfly bandages. Cim says I need these because I'm a cutter. Not an intentional cutter, just an accidental, klutzy person when wielding a knife or any other sharp instruments.
Pen and paper.
Man oh man. Maybe I'm not as together as I thought I was. I've got some shopping to do!
Already Done
Airplane ticket. Check. Purchased back in February and modified two weeks ago when I realized that United Airlines really wasn't kidding when they said they expected me to take a little commuter plane from Santa Ana to LAX then get on the real plane to fly from LAX to La Aurora International Airport. Why, oh why, United Airlines, would I want to drive 40 miles out of my way to get on a wee plane to fly to the airport that I asked for when trying to book online?
Shoes. Check. One pair of hiking boots, an inexpensive pair of tennis shoes and some flip flops.
Backpack Check. Purchased last week at the local Army/Navy surplus store for only $40. Internal frame, lots of space, already filled with stuff I plan on taking that I don't wear in normal life.
Clothes. Check. Four pair of cargo pants and one pair of speciality hiking pants that are supposed to wick moisture away. Wick wick wick wick. Yes, I bought new clothes for the trip because I wanted things that are lightweight that I don't care about getting dirty, etc., since I anticpate some rolling around in dirt whilst digging. Yes, it's making Linda and Cim crazy that I haven't been buying "girly" clothes. Linda said to me the other day, "I'll be glad when the Guatemala years are over so you can buy girly things again."
Portable Shower. Check. This is encouraged for each person because apparently the showers won't be available in the afternoons when we get back from work. Fill the 5 gallon shower thingy up with water before leaving in the morning, let the sun do its thing, then have a nice warm shower in the afternoon.
Lightweight towel. Check. This looks like one of the towels divers use in competition when they just get out of the pool. I hope it's enough. Maybe I should bring something else too? I'll have to ponder that.
Sunscreen. Check. For face and body.
Base tan. Check. Well, almost check. As much of a base tan as a whitey like me can be expected to have. I've actually been going to a tanning booth for a couple of months. (Don't hurt me, Qwendy!) Apparently, "base tan" for me means "more freckles."
Sleeping bag. Check. Not because I'll need it to keep warm, but because they recommend it for padding. Sounds like a camp cot situation. My back will be so pleased. I just need to remember to get it out of the garage. The sleeping bag, not my back.
Pillow. Check. It's one of those small, squooshy ones.
Cameras. Check. One digital, one 35mm, one video.
Camera bag for all three cameras. Check.
Hotel reservations. Check. For the extra two days I'm staying to do some sightseeing on my own.
Water carrier. Check. I got one of those camel back thingies that holds 1.5 liters. Should be enough to get me through a work day. I hope.
Bag to carry things that's not a backpack. Check. I didn't want a backpack because that just makes me hot and sweaty on my back, plus I've already got the whole camelback thing. I wanted a shoulder bag that would hold my things for a day out in the field and not be too bulky. I just love the local Army/Navy surplus store!
Sundry items. Check. Including anti-bacterial wipes, first aid kit, extra aspirin, spray-on bandages, blister prevention stuff, baby powder, travel size shampoo et al bottles, etc. Need to make sure the first aid kit has everything in it I need. (See below).
Laundry soap. Check. Got three mini boxes last night out of the vending machine at my local landermat.
Immunizations. Check. I've already gotten shots for Hepatitis A, polio, and typhoid. I just got a tetanus shot last year, so that's up to date.
Things I Still Need to Get/Remember to Bring
Small pillowcase for small squooshy pillow.
Toilet paper. While I have toilet paper, I just need to remember to bring a few rolls.
Mint Chocolate Pria bars. I imagine these will come in handy.
Local Currency. I have a call into the local Thomas Cook store now to see if they need to order me some Guatemalan money, I think it's called quetzals, or if they have some on hand.
Cell phone -- will it work internationally, or do I leave it at home? I imagine it'll be the latter option.
Palm Pilot. Much lighter than a laptop, yet will enable me to keep good notes of my trip. I have one of those cool foldable keyboards for it. I already have one, I just need to remember to pack it.
Palm Pilot charger.
Film. Just in case a video camera and digital camera aren't enough, I'm bringing my 35mm camera also.
Mailing labels. To send postcards to people while I'm there without needing to rely on memorizing addresses or carrying an address book with me. Of course I'll have my Palm with me, but labels will be easier.
A book to read on the airplane. Don't know yet which one, but it must be a paperback and long so as to keep me occupied.
Need to make hotel reservations for the day I get in. My flight arrives at 4:00 in the morning or something nasty like that, and our group isn't meeting until 2:00 in the afternoon, and I don't want to just hang out at the airport that whole time.
Electricity conversion thingy. Need to find out what type to get. Which leads to....
Decide if I should bring a curling iron and blow dryer or not. My hair is straight and flat without them, which may be just fine. But will I be able to live with myself??? That's the burning question. Yes, I'm that vain.
I need to read the books on Maya civilizations that are on the recommended reading list that I bought months ago but haven't really cracked open yet because I prefer fiction to non-fiction.
Malaria prophylatic. Get your mind out of the gutter. That's what they call it in the medical field. It means "protection against," in case you were wondering. And I need to start taking it two weeks before I leave (today!) and once each week while I'm down there, and after I get back.
Immodium A-D. Must. Get. This.
Pack bathing suit and shorts.
Socks. Of the wicking variety. Wick wick wick wick.
Waterproof my hiking boots.
Pack triangular bandages.
Pack butterfly bandages. Cim says I need these because I'm a cutter. Not an intentional cutter, just an accidental, klutzy person when wielding a knife or any other sharp instruments.
Pen and paper.
Man oh man. Maybe I'm not as together as I thought I was. I've got some shopping to do!
Monday, May 23, 2005
What I Did On My Summer Vacation
I know, I know -- summer hasn't even (officially) started yet, so I can't report on what I did for my summer vacation, but I when I do get around to writing that report when I go back to school in September (if I were, which I'm not, because, duh) that Mrs. Westlake will ask me to do, it should look a lot like it will today, only it'll be in the past tense.
In other words, my summer vacation is gonna be awesome because of the many fabulous things that I have planned. Here's a sampling:
April 23: My niece gets married and I'm going to the wedding. Yes, I know, it's already happened. Yes, I went to the wedding. It was lovely and my niece is beautiful and I was honored to have been in attendance. It was fun not only for the wedding part, but also to be able to spend time with my family. Two of my other nieces and I took the bride-to-be to Walmart the night before her wedding to do some last night shopping. Had I known it was up to us to throw the bachelorette party I would've come up with something a little bit more glamorous than Walmart. Glamorous, yes. More fun? Hard to top a night at Walmart with three of the most fabulous nieces who ever existed.
April 29: "Private Lives" by Noel Coward at the Pasadena Playhouse.
April 30: World Tai Chi Day. Did your world feel better that day? More peaceful? Did you find it easier to get along with loved ones? That's because I was saving the world with my chi. You can thank me later.
May 7: Time Out For Women: Sponsored by Deseret Book, this is a day to be able to recharge spiritual batteries by listening to wonderfully amazing speakers and music. I got my latest Sheri Dew book signed by Sheri Dew and reaffirmed my desire to be her when I grow up.
May 13-14: Birthday celebrations for Cim including a murder/mystery dinner cruise in the Long Beach harbor, a behind-the-scenes tour at the Long Beach Aquarium, and a haunted tour of the Queen Mary. Topped off by a lovely dinner at Bubba Gump's on Saturday, it was a fun, exhausting weekend.
May 17: Taping of the Ellen DeGeneres show. Fun, fun, fun.
May 18-19: Midnight showing of Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. It was more fun waiting for the movie in line and in the theater than the movie itself was, but at least there was no Jar-Jar Binks to contend with! Bottom line: it's the best of the prequels, but nothing can ever top the original three movies.
Okay, so that brings us up to date. Here're the coming attractions:
May 28: Angel's game in Anaheim. Don't get me started on how stupid it is that they're now called the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim.
June 3: Praire Home Companion at the
Hollywood
Bowl.
June 4: It seems like there's something besides the Boy Scout fundraising pancake breakfast, but I can't think of what it is off the top of my head and don't have it written in my planner.
June 9 - 25: Trip to Guatemala.
July 2, 6, 16 and 19: Wicked at the Pantages theater. I'm in love with this soundrack and cannot wait to see this. Obviously, since I've got tickets to see it four FOUR times.
Do you like how I just threw that bit in about Guatemala then didn't give any details? It's because I'm so dang excited I can hardly stand it!!!! I'm going with Earthwatch as a volunteer to participate in an ancient Mayan archaelogical expedition. I know!! Doesn't that sound like that coolest thing ever? I will write more about this in my next entry. Suffice it to say, I have been looking forward to this since January when I signed up, and though my summer would be happily complete on its own merits, this is definitely the icing on the cake. The whipped cream on the pie. The ice cream to the a la mode.
July 3: Musical salute for Disneyland's 50th anniversary and fireworks at the Hollywood Bowl.
July 16: The latest Harry Potter installment is released.
July 25-30: Girls' Camp in Running Springs.
And....that's it. For now. My August calendar only has one entry on it, which is probably just fine, since I need to really save some vacation time so I don't have to go in the hole for the cruise to Jamaica that Linda and I are going on in October.
Not too shabby, eh? I hope yours is as fun as I plan on mine being.
In other words, my summer vacation is gonna be awesome because of the many fabulous things that I have planned. Here's a sampling:
April 23: My niece gets married and I'm going to the wedding. Yes, I know, it's already happened. Yes, I went to the wedding. It was lovely and my niece is beautiful and I was honored to have been in attendance. It was fun not only for the wedding part, but also to be able to spend time with my family. Two of my other nieces and I took the bride-to-be to Walmart the night before her wedding to do some last night shopping. Had I known it was up to us to throw the bachelorette party I would've come up with something a little bit more glamorous than Walmart. Glamorous, yes. More fun? Hard to top a night at Walmart with three of the most fabulous nieces who ever existed.
April 29: "Private Lives" by Noel Coward at the Pasadena Playhouse.
April 30: World Tai Chi Day. Did your world feel better that day? More peaceful? Did you find it easier to get along with loved ones? That's because I was saving the world with my chi. You can thank me later.
May 7: Time Out For Women: Sponsored by Deseret Book, this is a day to be able to recharge spiritual batteries by listening to wonderfully amazing speakers and music. I got my latest Sheri Dew book signed by Sheri Dew and reaffirmed my desire to be her when I grow up.
May 13-14: Birthday celebrations for Cim including a murder/mystery dinner cruise in the Long Beach harbor, a behind-the-scenes tour at the Long Beach Aquarium, and a haunted tour of the Queen Mary. Topped off by a lovely dinner at Bubba Gump's on Saturday, it was a fun, exhausting weekend.
May 17: Taping of the Ellen DeGeneres show. Fun, fun, fun.
May 18-19: Midnight showing of Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. It was more fun waiting for the movie in line and in the theater than the movie itself was, but at least there was no Jar-Jar Binks to contend with! Bottom line: it's the best of the prequels, but nothing can ever top the original three movies.
Okay, so that brings us up to date. Here're the coming attractions:
May 28: Angel's game in Anaheim. Don't get me started on how stupid it is that they're now called the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim.
June 3: Praire Home Companion at the
Hollywood
Bowl.
June 4: It seems like there's something besides the Boy Scout fundraising pancake breakfast, but I can't think of what it is off the top of my head and don't have it written in my planner.
June 9 - 25: Trip to Guatemala.
July 2, 6, 16 and 19: Wicked at the Pantages theater. I'm in love with this soundrack and cannot wait to see this. Obviously, since I've got tickets to see it four FOUR times.
Do you like how I just threw that bit in about Guatemala then didn't give any details? It's because I'm so dang excited I can hardly stand it!!!! I'm going with Earthwatch as a volunteer to participate in an ancient Mayan archaelogical expedition. I know!! Doesn't that sound like that coolest thing ever? I will write more about this in my next entry. Suffice it to say, I have been looking forward to this since January when I signed up, and though my summer would be happily complete on its own merits, this is definitely the icing on the cake. The whipped cream on the pie. The ice cream to the a la mode.
July 3: Musical salute for Disneyland's 50th anniversary and fireworks at the Hollywood Bowl.
July 16: The latest Harry Potter installment is released.
July 25-30: Girls' Camp in Running Springs.
And....that's it. For now. My August calendar only has one entry on it, which is probably just fine, since I need to really save some vacation time so I don't have to go in the hole for the cruise to Jamaica that Linda and I are going on in October.
Not too shabby, eh? I hope yours is as fun as I plan on mine being.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Stinky Medicine
Last week I started developing a chalazion. Here's the link for WebMD so you can see for yourself, but it's essentially a pimple underneath your eyelid. Well, not yours, but mine, actually.
The first chalazion I ever got was about four years ago. I went to bed one night kind of rubbing my eye because it was itchy and felt irritated even though I couldn't see anything wrong with it. The next morning when I woke up, I thought a spider had bitten my eye or something similar since it was almost swollen shut and fairly gross looking.
Since it was a Sunday morning and I didn't want to page my doctor yet for a possible non-emergency, I had Cim drive me to the pharmacy to see if the pharmacist could recommend anything for it. I took off my sunglasses to show the pharmacist my eye, and she jumped back about two feet and said, "I don't have anything for that. Call a doctor."
I went to the ER and the doctor took one look at it and said, "Oh, you have a chalazion," very matter-of-factly. I had never heard the term before and didn't know what that meant other than, "Your eye is yucky, red, swollen and gross," so I asked, "What's that?"
He laughed and said, "Oh, essentially it's a pimple underneath the eyelid."
"I came to the emergency room for ACNE?"
He laughed some more. He went on to explain that there were two possible treatments for it -- one was to take antibiotics. He stopped.
"And the other way?" I prompted.
"I could go up there and lance it for you if you'd like."
Needless to say, I opted for the antibiotics.
Four years later and I've got another chalazion. This time I was able to diagnose it myself and called my regular doctor to ask for antibiotics. I guess he doesn't have to treat many chalazions because he hesitated a little longer than usual before replying that would be fine.
The antibiotics? Stink. Individually they're almost odorless, but altogether in one bottle they smell like rotten egg, sulphurous farts.
My Latest Addiction
A few weeks ago Linda introduced me to the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaves non-coffe iced vanilla blended drink. It was delicious. It was, I believe, even better tasting than the chocolate iced blended drink I chose at the time thinking that vanilla couldn't be that exciting. Oh, but it is.
There is a Starbucks in the building across the street from where I work. They have an equivalent non-coffee vanilla iced drink. Also very delicious. I asked them today if they could make it with non-fat milk. The barista said that's how they make it anyway, so I ordered a venti, the biggest, piggiest size.
Do you think the fact that the barista looked at me with pity when I exultantly exclaimed that if it's made with non-fat milk must mean it's a low-fat dessert means that it's not really low-fat?
Probably. I ordered the whipped cream anyway.
I Am Not Either Bossy. No I'm NOT!
I attended a work-sponsored "What's Your Communication Style?" class last week. I learned that there are basically four communication types: Analytical, Driver, Expressive and Amiable.
I was telling my two good friends about the class and describing the main attributes of each group -- Analyticals really take their time in making decisions because they want to make sure they have all the facts before proceeding; they typically proivde more information than is necessary; and they're very deliberate.
Drivers are decisive, candid, results-oriented, pragmatic. They see a goal and don't let anything get in their way while achieving it.
Expressives are creative, enthusiastic, spontaneous and in my opinion, can be downright annoying because they have to be the center of attention while not actually doing a lot of the work.
Amiables are very people/relationship focused in that they're supportive, empathic and loyal.
Linda and Cim immediately pegged me as a Driver. Okay, that's fair since that's what my test results were, but I honestly don't see why they had to laugh about it as I was describing those attributes. Besides, I tried justiying, those aren't necessarily personality traits; they're communicattion styles. Right? RIGHT?
Last night I found a cute little on-line quiz to find out what Winnie the Pooh character you most resemble.
It will probably come as a surprise only to me that my results were:
Rabbit. You are rather bossy and high strung, but we love you anyway!
I even took it twice to see if I got a different result, but to no avail. *sigh*
The first chalazion I ever got was about four years ago. I went to bed one night kind of rubbing my eye because it was itchy and felt irritated even though I couldn't see anything wrong with it. The next morning when I woke up, I thought a spider had bitten my eye or something similar since it was almost swollen shut and fairly gross looking.
Since it was a Sunday morning and I didn't want to page my doctor yet for a possible non-emergency, I had Cim drive me to the pharmacy to see if the pharmacist could recommend anything for it. I took off my sunglasses to show the pharmacist my eye, and she jumped back about two feet and said, "I don't have anything for that. Call a doctor."
I went to the ER and the doctor took one look at it and said, "Oh, you have a chalazion," very matter-of-factly. I had never heard the term before and didn't know what that meant other than, "Your eye is yucky, red, swollen and gross," so I asked, "What's that?"
He laughed and said, "Oh, essentially it's a pimple underneath the eyelid."
"I came to the emergency room for ACNE?"
He laughed some more. He went on to explain that there were two possible treatments for it -- one was to take antibiotics. He stopped.
"And the other way?" I prompted.
"I could go up there and lance it for you if you'd like."
Needless to say, I opted for the antibiotics.
Four years later and I've got another chalazion. This time I was able to diagnose it myself and called my regular doctor to ask for antibiotics. I guess he doesn't have to treat many chalazions because he hesitated a little longer than usual before replying that would be fine.
The antibiotics? Stink. Individually they're almost odorless, but altogether in one bottle they smell like rotten egg, sulphurous farts.
My Latest Addiction
A few weeks ago Linda introduced me to the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaves non-coffe iced vanilla blended drink. It was delicious. It was, I believe, even better tasting than the chocolate iced blended drink I chose at the time thinking that vanilla couldn't be that exciting. Oh, but it is.
There is a Starbucks in the building across the street from where I work. They have an equivalent non-coffee vanilla iced drink. Also very delicious. I asked them today if they could make it with non-fat milk. The barista said that's how they make it anyway, so I ordered a venti, the biggest, piggiest size.
Do you think the fact that the barista looked at me with pity when I exultantly exclaimed that if it's made with non-fat milk must mean it's a low-fat dessert means that it's not really low-fat?
Probably. I ordered the whipped cream anyway.
I Am Not Either Bossy. No I'm NOT!
I attended a work-sponsored "What's Your Communication Style?" class last week. I learned that there are basically four communication types: Analytical, Driver, Expressive and Amiable.
I was telling my two good friends about the class and describing the main attributes of each group -- Analyticals really take their time in making decisions because they want to make sure they have all the facts before proceeding; they typically proivde more information than is necessary; and they're very deliberate.
Drivers are decisive, candid, results-oriented, pragmatic. They see a goal and don't let anything get in their way while achieving it.
Expressives are creative, enthusiastic, spontaneous and in my opinion, can be downright annoying because they have to be the center of attention while not actually doing a lot of the work.
Amiables are very people/relationship focused in that they're supportive, empathic and loyal.
Linda and Cim immediately pegged me as a Driver. Okay, that's fair since that's what my test results were, but I honestly don't see why they had to laugh about it as I was describing those attributes. Besides, I tried justiying, those aren't necessarily personality traits; they're communicattion styles. Right? RIGHT?
Last night I found a cute little on-line quiz to find out what Winnie the Pooh character you most resemble.
It will probably come as a surprise only to me that my results were:
Rabbit. You are rather bossy and high strung, but we love you anyway!
I even took it twice to see if I got a different result, but to no avail. *sigh*
Monday, April 25, 2005
How Was Your Weekend?
A work associate of mine today asked me how my weekend was. I immediately answered, "Great!" very enthusiastically, which piqued her interest, and mine too, come to find out, because on reflection, it wasn't "great" in the traditional sense; it was funny in the traditional sense, and actually kind of pathetic as it was happening, so now looking back on it, it's just fun to laugh about it. As strange as it was for her to ask me on a Wednesday about my weekend, it may also seem a bit delinquent for me to write about it here, but, oh well.
Linda got an email from a church singles' mailing group about a dance in Pasadena on Saturday night. Now, we've been to a Pasadena dance before, and it was excruciatingly painful. There were about 40 people there, awful music, and the only ones who were dancing were the ones who had come with a date or made arrangements to meet someone there. Suffice it to say, we did not participate in any dancing ourselves that night. I'd like to think that it's because we were the youngest ones there (and at 38 and 42, we're no spring chickens) and also the best-dressed, but that makes me sound like a self-entitled snob, so I'll admit to the fact that we left 20 minutes after we got there, running, actually -- screaming in frustration, humiliation and "why did we even bother!", and give the other attendees the benefit of the doubt that we didn't allow ample opportunity to participate in any actual dancing.
It's a legitimate question, then, to wonder why, if we had such an awful experience the last time, we would subject ourselves to a potential repeat of a horrific evening. Good question. The email promised a "swing" theme, which sounded promising. Maybe that would attract more people, since swing dancing is what all the young, hip crowd is doing these days. Okay, it's what the young, hip crowd was doing five years ago, but better late than never, right? The email also encouraged theme or era dressing, which sounded fun too.
So much fun, in fact, that it prompted a shopping trip to find something great to wear. Even though I got some new clothes, I wound up wearing things I already had in my closet, with the addition of a cute, fun-patterned, pink scarf thingy around my waist. Very different for me, very daring, and though I didn't look like Bette Davis or anyone else from the 40s, I think I looked like a fun version of something from the 50s. Linda also looked smashing in some new pants and a cute sweater.
In short, we felt confident in how we looked and deemed ourselves ready for a night on the town. Or at least ready for 20 minutes of circling the perimeter of the gym floor, getting something to eat, wondering what we were doing there when there were only 40 people there, none of whom seemed remotely interested in us and leaving again.
Because that is essentially what happened.
Our first sight of the giant, inflated, lit-up Easter bunny in the foyer should have tipped us off that not all was completely right with the world. What the heck? Easter decorations three weeks after the holiday? What's that all about? Well, okay, whatever. Then the guy taking our money looked like, well, a modern-day pirate, really. Completely bald (not bad -- I like bald men), sporting a very unfashionable facial hair growth of mustache gone all sorts of haywire. It wasn't a goatee, not a beard, and not exactly a mustache either. It was some sort of weird lip hair that went down to his jaw line, halfway between his ears and chin. It was just weird and sick and wrong. Plus, he was speaking in some (self-acknowledged) fakey Hungarian accent. Whatever, non-impressive pirate dude.
We went to the door and tentatively poked our heads in to get a feel for how many people were there. While I was counting the fact that there were more people sitting at the tables and chairs than there were on the dance floor (with a healthy 40:6 ratio), I was also vaguely aware of someone shouting my name. But I figured it couldn't be for me, because I don't know anyone personally at these things. But then Linda said, "Oh, Brad (not his real name, because this is the guy that you really don't want to have acknowledge you at these things because he's socially not quite right and mentally not all there either, so you really don't want to get tagged by him for the rset of the night, even though he's a nice guy, you don't want to spend all night talking to him because it's uncomfortable in very many ways, and you certainly don't want to limit yourself) is here." We kind of waved at Brad, then horrified at how many people were dancing compared to how many people were eating, decided that the food must be pretty good, so we went to check that out.
We went to the kitchen and got some food to nibble on, then went back to the gym to scope out the safest place to sit. That means not giving any dweebs the wrong idea just because you've sat at their table to eat, but not wanting to alienate anyone either. There was one older lady sitting by herself, and trying to keep in mind our attitudes of we're not looking to get married here, just to meet new people, we decided to go sit by her.
Dee, and I don't know if that's her name or not, but I think she said it was, was an interesting character. She too, had gotten all spiffed up for the dance. Well, not exactly according to my definition for getting all spiffed up, but for her, I guess it was. This was, after all, a dance, and she was dressed and there, so I guess it was her definition. She was wearing a pink florally skirt, a pink t-shirt with some sort of character or writing on it, a bandana around her neck, crew socks that had given up their elastic ghost and were crumpled down around her ankles, and an old pair of running shoes. For accessories, she was wearing her Buddy Holly glasses tied with a shoelace. Oh, and there were wads of toilet paper sticking out of her ears. To, you know, drown out the (not) loud swing and easy listening music that was playing.
The toilet paper made for an interesting conversational exchange. She wanted to talk to us, but was unwilling to take out the toilet paper to make it easy for her to understand us. She asked us who was singing this song. Linda, who knows all things musical, immediately said, "James Taylor."
"What?" she hollered back at us.
"James Taylor," said more emphatically and loudly this time. "Either him or his son Ryan."
"WHAT?" she bawled.
"James Taylor!" shouted Linda. "Or his son Ryan, but I'm pretty sure it's James."
"James Taylor," she fairly snorted back. "No it's not. It must be that other one you said, his son. I don't believe it's James. Dan!" She yelled to the DJ sitting 20 feet away. "Who is this singing?"
Dan, rightly so, did not reply or acknowledge her. Dee got up and said, "I'm going to go find out. It's not James Taylor." She got up and started walking over to the DJ table.
Linda muttered, "Oh good. Yes, do go find out. I'm sure I'm right. I hope I win." And Dee, who couldn't hear a shouted conversation from 3 feet away, was apparently perfectly capable of hearing a mumbled comment from 10 feet away, because she turned around and shot Linda a dirty look. All that with the toilet paper still intact.
She wandered back, sat down, and Linda asked, "Well? Was I right? Do I win?" Dee confirmed that it was, indeed, James Taylor, but managed to say it in a way that conveyed she knew it all along.
I won't bother to go into all of our exchanges with her, though there weren't many, they all just went downhill from there. When the next song came on, she asked who was singing that one, and Linda told her Dean Martin. She cocked her head to the side, the better to hear through the toilet paper barricade, and said, "Yes, you're right." Then a women's voice started singing and she said, "Who's that?" Without giving either of us a chance to reply, she went on, "It must be Dean Martin's wife. What was her name?"
I, giving up all pretense of politeness said, "Mrs. Martin," which started the whole "WHAT???" thing again. She then excused herself to go get another baked potato. She brought it back to the table, unwrapped it from the foil and proceeded to eat it dry like an apple. Then she asked me if I had a checkbook. "Not with me," I said, wondering where this was leading.
"I don't have one either. I can't have one. I can't balance a checkbook. Too hard. I just have a day-to-day savings account." And having shared with us her financial accumen, just then noticed that some man she apparently had her eye on was dancing with someone else, so she got up to be closer to the dance area. Only, not just at the perimeter of the dance floor, she actually stood about three feet away from where this couple was standing and just stared at them.
We used that opportunity to observe the other dancers, and nothing had changed. The same six people were dancing with each other, and the other 40 attendees were leaning back in their chairs with their Honey-Baked ham dinners in front of them, clearly with no intention of budging to dance.
So. We left. Well, we started to leave, but decided to stop in the kitchen first to get some more strawberries. We ran into Brad again who started rambling about the singles' newsletter that he was trying to get out to us. Then he pointed Carl out to us and told us that Carl was the one responsible for telling him, Brad, all the details of the different events. Carl, hearing his name mentioned, turned around and said, "What? I'm just the messenger."
I was still trying to be (semi) polite and social and said, "So, we shouldn't shoot you then?" Linda started laughing immediately. Brad and Carl just looked at me blankly while crickets chirped. Then, deciding that I must be socially retarded, went back to talking about some singles' conference they were going to, at which point Linda and I snuck out the door behind them, and ran screaming to the car.
I want to enjoy these dances; I really do. But it's so hard when I feel like I'm either the youngest one there, or the most normal, or just really not interested in any other males close to my age because they're so....so...
I'll tell you what happened at the last dance we went to in Irvine, and you can come up with your own adjective of the guys my age. There was a group of four or five guys who were all enthusiastically dancing. With girls considerablly younger than themselves, and not nearly as cute as me. That says something about the guys right there. Then, as they would take breaks between songs, they would walk up to one of the large fans in the corner of the gym, pulling and tugging at their shirts as if to will more circulation on their hot, sweaty bodies, then stand in front of the fan holding their arms up so they could air out. Niiiice.
Besides their obvious questionable taste in fashion, one of them was sporting a ratty, torn t-shirt with a cartoon sketch of Santa Claus on it. I wondered why, since this was early February, but upon closer examination, saw that Santa was carrying a gift and underneath it said, "I have a large package."
Yeah, I know. That's what I thought too. I couldn't believe he was wearing that to a church. Dance.
You can begin to see why I don't think my eternal mate is exactly waiting for me at one of these things. I will try to go as often as I feel brave, if only so I don't lose all my social skills (which apparently don't really matter), but the type of guy I want isn't airing his armpits out in front of a fan, or wearing stupid t-shirts, or hunched over a baked potato.
Back in Pasadena, we decided that we looked way to good to just go back home and spend the night in front of the TV, so we decided to go to a karaoke bar. I won't go into all the details about that, but I will say that at least I got acknowledged by more guys there than I have at one of these dances. It may be the alcohol doing the looking (theirs, not mine, as I don't drink), but I'm not exactly looking for any encounters of the drunken kind, either.
So, here I am, still trying to figure out the best place for me to put myself to meet any sort of a man I'm interested in who can handle me. I'm so glad that I don't have to rely on guys' opinions of me to have any sort of self-esteem, or else I'd be very depressed indeed.
Meanwhile, I'll just keep going to these lovely activities and collecting material to put here. That's more fun anyway.
Linda got an email from a church singles' mailing group about a dance in Pasadena on Saturday night. Now, we've been to a Pasadena dance before, and it was excruciatingly painful. There were about 40 people there, awful music, and the only ones who were dancing were the ones who had come with a date or made arrangements to meet someone there. Suffice it to say, we did not participate in any dancing ourselves that night. I'd like to think that it's because we were the youngest ones there (and at 38 and 42, we're no spring chickens) and also the best-dressed, but that makes me sound like a self-entitled snob, so I'll admit to the fact that we left 20 minutes after we got there, running, actually -- screaming in frustration, humiliation and "why did we even bother!", and give the other attendees the benefit of the doubt that we didn't allow ample opportunity to participate in any actual dancing.
It's a legitimate question, then, to wonder why, if we had such an awful experience the last time, we would subject ourselves to a potential repeat of a horrific evening. Good question. The email promised a "swing" theme, which sounded promising. Maybe that would attract more people, since swing dancing is what all the young, hip crowd is doing these days. Okay, it's what the young, hip crowd was doing five years ago, but better late than never, right? The email also encouraged theme or era dressing, which sounded fun too.
So much fun, in fact, that it prompted a shopping trip to find something great to wear. Even though I got some new clothes, I wound up wearing things I already had in my closet, with the addition of a cute, fun-patterned, pink scarf thingy around my waist. Very different for me, very daring, and though I didn't look like Bette Davis or anyone else from the 40s, I think I looked like a fun version of something from the 50s. Linda also looked smashing in some new pants and a cute sweater.
In short, we felt confident in how we looked and deemed ourselves ready for a night on the town. Or at least ready for 20 minutes of circling the perimeter of the gym floor, getting something to eat, wondering what we were doing there when there were only 40 people there, none of whom seemed remotely interested in us and leaving again.
Because that is essentially what happened.
Our first sight of the giant, inflated, lit-up Easter bunny in the foyer should have tipped us off that not all was completely right with the world. What the heck? Easter decorations three weeks after the holiday? What's that all about? Well, okay, whatever. Then the guy taking our money looked like, well, a modern-day pirate, really. Completely bald (not bad -- I like bald men), sporting a very unfashionable facial hair growth of mustache gone all sorts of haywire. It wasn't a goatee, not a beard, and not exactly a mustache either. It was some sort of weird lip hair that went down to his jaw line, halfway between his ears and chin. It was just weird and sick and wrong. Plus, he was speaking in some (self-acknowledged) fakey Hungarian accent. Whatever, non-impressive pirate dude.
We went to the door and tentatively poked our heads in to get a feel for how many people were there. While I was counting the fact that there were more people sitting at the tables and chairs than there were on the dance floor (with a healthy 40:6 ratio), I was also vaguely aware of someone shouting my name. But I figured it couldn't be for me, because I don't know anyone personally at these things. But then Linda said, "Oh, Brad (not his real name, because this is the guy that you really don't want to have acknowledge you at these things because he's socially not quite right and mentally not all there either, so you really don't want to get tagged by him for the rset of the night, even though he's a nice guy, you don't want to spend all night talking to him because it's uncomfortable in very many ways, and you certainly don't want to limit yourself) is here." We kind of waved at Brad, then horrified at how many people were dancing compared to how many people were eating, decided that the food must be pretty good, so we went to check that out.
We went to the kitchen and got some food to nibble on, then went back to the gym to scope out the safest place to sit. That means not giving any dweebs the wrong idea just because you've sat at their table to eat, but not wanting to alienate anyone either. There was one older lady sitting by herself, and trying to keep in mind our attitudes of we're not looking to get married here, just to meet new people, we decided to go sit by her.
Dee, and I don't know if that's her name or not, but I think she said it was, was an interesting character. She too, had gotten all spiffed up for the dance. Well, not exactly according to my definition for getting all spiffed up, but for her, I guess it was. This was, after all, a dance, and she was dressed and there, so I guess it was her definition. She was wearing a pink florally skirt, a pink t-shirt with some sort of character or writing on it, a bandana around her neck, crew socks that had given up their elastic ghost and were crumpled down around her ankles, and an old pair of running shoes. For accessories, she was wearing her Buddy Holly glasses tied with a shoelace. Oh, and there were wads of toilet paper sticking out of her ears. To, you know, drown out the (not) loud swing and easy listening music that was playing.
The toilet paper made for an interesting conversational exchange. She wanted to talk to us, but was unwilling to take out the toilet paper to make it easy for her to understand us. She asked us who was singing this song. Linda, who knows all things musical, immediately said, "James Taylor."
"What?" she hollered back at us.
"James Taylor," said more emphatically and loudly this time. "Either him or his son Ryan."
"WHAT?" she bawled.
"James Taylor!" shouted Linda. "Or his son Ryan, but I'm pretty sure it's James."
"James Taylor," she fairly snorted back. "No it's not. It must be that other one you said, his son. I don't believe it's James. Dan!" She yelled to the DJ sitting 20 feet away. "Who is this singing?"
Dan, rightly so, did not reply or acknowledge her. Dee got up and said, "I'm going to go find out. It's not James Taylor." She got up and started walking over to the DJ table.
Linda muttered, "Oh good. Yes, do go find out. I'm sure I'm right. I hope I win." And Dee, who couldn't hear a shouted conversation from 3 feet away, was apparently perfectly capable of hearing a mumbled comment from 10 feet away, because she turned around and shot Linda a dirty look. All that with the toilet paper still intact.
She wandered back, sat down, and Linda asked, "Well? Was I right? Do I win?" Dee confirmed that it was, indeed, James Taylor, but managed to say it in a way that conveyed she knew it all along.
I won't bother to go into all of our exchanges with her, though there weren't many, they all just went downhill from there. When the next song came on, she asked who was singing that one, and Linda told her Dean Martin. She cocked her head to the side, the better to hear through the toilet paper barricade, and said, "Yes, you're right." Then a women's voice started singing and she said, "Who's that?" Without giving either of us a chance to reply, she went on, "It must be Dean Martin's wife. What was her name?"
I, giving up all pretense of politeness said, "Mrs. Martin," which started the whole "WHAT???" thing again. She then excused herself to go get another baked potato. She brought it back to the table, unwrapped it from the foil and proceeded to eat it dry like an apple. Then she asked me if I had a checkbook. "Not with me," I said, wondering where this was leading.
"I don't have one either. I can't have one. I can't balance a checkbook. Too hard. I just have a day-to-day savings account." And having shared with us her financial accumen, just then noticed that some man she apparently had her eye on was dancing with someone else, so she got up to be closer to the dance area. Only, not just at the perimeter of the dance floor, she actually stood about three feet away from where this couple was standing and just stared at them.
We used that opportunity to observe the other dancers, and nothing had changed. The same six people were dancing with each other, and the other 40 attendees were leaning back in their chairs with their Honey-Baked ham dinners in front of them, clearly with no intention of budging to dance.
So. We left. Well, we started to leave, but decided to stop in the kitchen first to get some more strawberries. We ran into Brad again who started rambling about the singles' newsletter that he was trying to get out to us. Then he pointed Carl out to us and told us that Carl was the one responsible for telling him, Brad, all the details of the different events. Carl, hearing his name mentioned, turned around and said, "What? I'm just the messenger."
I was still trying to be (semi) polite and social and said, "So, we shouldn't shoot you then?" Linda started laughing immediately. Brad and Carl just looked at me blankly while crickets chirped. Then, deciding that I must be socially retarded, went back to talking about some singles' conference they were going to, at which point Linda and I snuck out the door behind them, and ran screaming to the car.
I want to enjoy these dances; I really do. But it's so hard when I feel like I'm either the youngest one there, or the most normal, or just really not interested in any other males close to my age because they're so....so...
I'll tell you what happened at the last dance we went to in Irvine, and you can come up with your own adjective of the guys my age. There was a group of four or five guys who were all enthusiastically dancing. With girls considerablly younger than themselves, and not nearly as cute as me. That says something about the guys right there. Then, as they would take breaks between songs, they would walk up to one of the large fans in the corner of the gym, pulling and tugging at their shirts as if to will more circulation on their hot, sweaty bodies, then stand in front of the fan holding their arms up so they could air out. Niiiice.
Besides their obvious questionable taste in fashion, one of them was sporting a ratty, torn t-shirt with a cartoon sketch of Santa Claus on it. I wondered why, since this was early February, but upon closer examination, saw that Santa was carrying a gift and underneath it said, "I have a large package."
Yeah, I know. That's what I thought too. I couldn't believe he was wearing that to a church. Dance.
You can begin to see why I don't think my eternal mate is exactly waiting for me at one of these things. I will try to go as often as I feel brave, if only so I don't lose all my social skills (which apparently don't really matter), but the type of guy I want isn't airing his armpits out in front of a fan, or wearing stupid t-shirts, or hunched over a baked potato.
Back in Pasadena, we decided that we looked way to good to just go back home and spend the night in front of the TV, so we decided to go to a karaoke bar. I won't go into all the details about that, but I will say that at least I got acknowledged by more guys there than I have at one of these dances. It may be the alcohol doing the looking (theirs, not mine, as I don't drink), but I'm not exactly looking for any encounters of the drunken kind, either.
So, here I am, still trying to figure out the best place for me to put myself to meet any sort of a man I'm interested in who can handle me. I'm so glad that I don't have to rely on guys' opinions of me to have any sort of self-esteem, or else I'd be very depressed indeed.
Meanwhile, I'll just keep going to these lovely activities and collecting material to put here. That's more fun anyway.
Saturday, April 16, 2005
A Letter to Billy Blanks, Creator of Tae Bo
...which as we all know, is some made up name to make it sound like you're going to be able to use your new black belt and kick someone's butt in a dark alley.
Dear Billy,
Thanks to you, though, not only will I not be able to kick someone's hiney, I won't even be able to run away. I'll have to limp, hobble, really, because you and your silly exercise program have so completely messed up my hip and groin muscle that I can barely move.
Thank you for the guilt you so handily give me for not having 6-pack abdominal muscles or rock-hard thigh muscles. I wanted them, I really did. That's why I got your video eight years ago. I had high hopes for myself, just as I know you did, when you so sincerely looked in my eyes through the camera during your infomercerial and promised that I could shed unwanted pounds and flab. And I wanted to, I really did. I knew that with you as my personal coach, I could do anything.
Unfortunately, "anything" meant that all I could do was scream in agony as I felt my muscle slowly tearing away from the bone and ligament. I really did think that doing the leg lift kick out move would really prepare me to beat up bad guys with a swift, well-placed thigh-high kick.
Now you've come out with your new Basic Training program, which you claim you developed for the men and women in our armed forces. I don't know why I don't completely believe that claim. Was there really something you could offer, say, a Navy Seal that they weren't getting on their own? Just because you wear camoflauge clothing and your little army of muscled-robots wear little bits and pieces of camoflauged clothes strategically placed so as to best show off their own sets of muscles, does not necessarily make you qualified for the military. I could go to my local Army/Navy surplus store and buy that stuff myself, but it doesn't mean I'm actually IN the army, ya know?
I have progressed in my own self-confidence and body image to be comfortable enough now to just lie in bed and watch you trying to sell your product to the next generation of deluded people who think they need to look like you. I actually feel healthier just lying there and not stressing about it than I would if I thought I needed to look like you.
In short, Billy Blanks, take your silly little troop of insane people and go away. I have a bowl of ice cream I need to eat.
Sincerely,
Laura
Dear Billy,
Thanks to you, though, not only will I not be able to kick someone's hiney, I won't even be able to run away. I'll have to limp, hobble, really, because you and your silly exercise program have so completely messed up my hip and groin muscle that I can barely move.
Thank you for the guilt you so handily give me for not having 6-pack abdominal muscles or rock-hard thigh muscles. I wanted them, I really did. That's why I got your video eight years ago. I had high hopes for myself, just as I know you did, when you so sincerely looked in my eyes through the camera during your infomercerial and promised that I could shed unwanted pounds and flab. And I wanted to, I really did. I knew that with you as my personal coach, I could do anything.
Unfortunately, "anything" meant that all I could do was scream in agony as I felt my muscle slowly tearing away from the bone and ligament. I really did think that doing the leg lift kick out move would really prepare me to beat up bad guys with a swift, well-placed thigh-high kick.
Now you've come out with your new Basic Training program, which you claim you developed for the men and women in our armed forces. I don't know why I don't completely believe that claim. Was there really something you could offer, say, a Navy Seal that they weren't getting on their own? Just because you wear camoflauge clothing and your little army of muscled-robots wear little bits and pieces of camoflauged clothes strategically placed so as to best show off their own sets of muscles, does not necessarily make you qualified for the military. I could go to my local Army/Navy surplus store and buy that stuff myself, but it doesn't mean I'm actually IN the army, ya know?
I have progressed in my own self-confidence and body image to be comfortable enough now to just lie in bed and watch you trying to sell your product to the next generation of deluded people who think they need to look like you. I actually feel healthier just lying there and not stressing about it than I would if I thought I needed to look like you.
In short, Billy Blanks, take your silly little troop of insane people and go away. I have a bowl of ice cream I need to eat.
Sincerely,
Laura
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