Work It?

Okay, so it's about that time of the month where, if you don't hear from me soon, you should all be yelling at me about doing my fitness assessment, expecting a progress report, etc. etc.

Well, here's the deal. I have not, as promised, been doing my run three times a week. I've been doing it once or twice a week, and not at all for the last week and a half or so.

Stop yelling at me and hear me out.

See, I've been having this pain in my foot. It started about the time I started this whole thing, so at first I figured it was just a matter of my suddenly using certain odd little muscles a lot more than they were used to. At the beginning, my calves were hurting a hell of a lot more than my foot, so it didn't even really register at first. It's not a sharp, debilitating pain, just kind of...annoying. At any rate, unlike my calves, it never got better, and it starts nagging at me any time I run or tap dance. Seeing as how I have also gotten into a bad habit of letting my milk go bad in my refrigerator, I now suspect it may be a stress fracture. I'm not sure whether it's the running or the tap dancing that are to blame, but I am trying to take it easy, drink lots of milk, and see if the doctor can't heal thyself. I probably shouldn't even be going to tap class (it had been feeling much better but was hurting by the end of the hour last night, and let's face it - it doesn't get more high-impact than deliberately striking a wooden floor repeatedly with metal-soled shoes) but dammit, those cost money, I only have two more left, and I'll be damned if I'm going to quit before I learn the rest of that Fred Astaire combination.

So yeah, I'm kind of frustrated and disappointed with myself, because before I started taking it easy I had been making progress. And since I can't afford a gym membership, I don't even have access to an elliptical trainer, swimming pool, or other low/no-impact ways to at least keep my cardio endurance up to speed.

Yarr.

So I'm doing the best I can. Bear with me - I'll keep you posted.

High Anxiety

So I was supposed to go to a cookout this afternoon. It was a hard invitation to turn down - it's my landlord's birthday, and I'm renting from really great people, and it was happening literally right outside my door. I got up this morning, cleaned my bathroom since my landlord had asked if I would mind if her guests used it, went out to replenish my toilet paper supply because I figured the one roll wouldn't last when the entire Greek population of the GTA rolled in. Shortly before things were supposed to get going, I hopped in the shower. Got dressed...dried my hair...did my makeup...

...and haven't left my apartment since.

I spend most days struggling with a touch of social anxiety disorder, and today it's winning.

Any time I'm going to meet new people, I pretty much have to force myself to do it. If it's just one or two new people, I'm okay. Even better, if that one new person is joining a group of which I am already an established member, piece of cake. But the thought of walking into a party full of strangers, where the only people I know are the hosts (who clearly cannot spend the whole afternoon introducing me to people and involving me in the conversation) gives me the screaming heebie-jeebies. I abhor small-talk, and am thus a lousy mingler.

So pretty much every social engagement with anyone I'm not 100% comfortable with requires a great deal of psyching myself up and liberal use of the mantra, "Oh, just suck it up." And 9 times out of 10, once I get to the gathering and settle into my rhythm, I'm glad I'm there and I have a good time. You would think that over time it would get easier to get to that point, and yet it never seems to.

This may come as a surprise to those of you who see me as so confident and self-assured, but this is exactly why I'm always saying I'm not all I'm cracked up to be.

Thanks so much for the invite - I hope you had a very happy birthday. But I'm sorry, I'm just...not feeling up to it today.

So That Sucked.

The powers that be are seriously messing with me today.

It's a Saturday night, and I don't have plans, but that's okay, because my landlord is having a cookout tomorrow and has asked if I wouldn't mind doing my laundry tonight instead of tomorrow morning. Plus, it's the first Saturday night in forever that Em, my virtual roommate, is home, sans boyfriend or show to run, and thus available to watch Sex and the City DVD's with me while we both do laundry. This is exciting. I made pizza...opened up some cheap wine...settled in for the night.

So I go into the laundry room to change loads, and there is a vast pond...nay, LAGOON...of blue liquid standing between myself and, well, anything else I could possibly want to get to in the laundry room. In the middle of the lagoon is the jug...nay, TANKER...of Wisk that I purchased about two weeks ago, with the expectation that it would last me a good 6 months. The yellow cap is nowhere to be found, only a small shard of yellow plastic mid-lagoon remains as evidence that it ever actually existed and was not, in fact, merely the product of a deranged imagination.

FUCK.

Now, I feel the need to mention here that this is, in fact, the SECOND time I have found my tanker on the floor this evening, oozing its April-fresh goodness on the concrete floor. The first time, it appeared as though someone had, for whatever reason, taken it down from its perch on top of the dryer, and set it down on the floor, without knowing that the cap was not tightly closed. I wasn't happy about that spill either, but it wasn't too big (about a large load or maybe two's worth), and I managed to clean it up fairly quickly and restore the tanker to its rightful place. Apparently, it was not human intervention that was to blame - it was the appliance that had decided it no longer wanted to carry the white man's burden and chucked off its foamy shackles. Twice.

I don't know if you've ever tried to mop up a viscous cleaning product. It pretty much sucks. No matter how much you mop, it's still foamy. There's a REASON your washing machine uses a lot of water to rinse this stuff out of your clothes...unfortunately, the floor does not have a spin cycle. Now, I was at least smart enough to remember that I have a little squeegee-type thing, and there is a drain in the floor, so I set to work sweeping the lagoon down the drain in order to make the mopping portion of the evening go a little more smoothly.

Of course, a hidden peril lies in sweeping things down a drain that doesn't get used very often. Namely, things that are settled in for the night...perhaps trying to have a quiet Saturday night watching Insects and the City while IMing other bugs in St. Louis who are also home with nothing to do...tend to be just a wee bit pissed off. I can't say I blame them - if someone came along and started pouring Wisk all over my apartment while I was just trying to chill out and mind my own business, I'd be pretty torked off too. Suffice it to say, I rousted the biggest fucking house centipede I've ever had the misfortune to come face to face with out of his happy home.

I should say here that I am not, as a rule, a big weenie Girl when it comes to bugs. I'll swat a silverfish, earwig, or spider without really giving it any thought. But I really, REALLY hate centipedes, and living in a basement, I have to contend with them with some frequency. I know they eat pretty much everything else, and thus I should just leave them be and let them police the grounds, but even when I find one that's already dead they freak me the fuck out. Anything with that many legs simply should not happen. And the bigger they are and the faster they move, the more they give me the willies.

So picture it, if you will: The Hulkipede has skittered to the relative safety under the furnace, waiting to make his move. I am now squatting over the lagoon, armed with a squeegee in one hand and a shoe in the other, constantly shooting furtive glances in all directions but not at all convinced that, in the event of a standoff, I will emerge victorious. I am barefoot, my cow pajamas rolled up around my calves to avoid being tracked through detergent, but at the same time in grave danger of falling off of my ass and giving me plumber butt from hell. The couple of glasses of wine I've had at this point are doing nothing for my coordination, balance, or nerves.

Something tells me this is a position Angelina Jolie has never been in.

I manage to get as much squeegeed as is possible, so it's now time to turn to the mop. The only one I can find is a tiny little one in the corner that looks like it's seen better and more absorbent days, but what the hell. I try to mop up the random splatters and trails left behind by the squeegee with as dry a mop as possible to avoid spreading it all around.

Bare feet + painted concrete floor + Wisk + water = HILARITY ENSUING

I come to the realization that I could, in fact, do this all night and never stop seeing suds on the floor, so I get it down to a minimal layer and throw in the mop, as it were. The bright side is, the laundry room now smells extra fresh, and the floor and the mop are now considerably cleaner than they've probably ever been. My back and legs are incredibly tired, but mostly I'm just pissed that I was robbed of quality time with Em, and many weeks' supply of a laundry detergent that was a really good deal and I happen to really like the smell of.

And they still haven't caught The Hulkipede. His reign of terror lives on.

Self-Fulfilling Prophecy (updated)

My horoscope for today:

Even with the highest of spiritual intentions, you still may not be able to keep your mind off sex today. You may find yourself thinking about things that are usually outside of your comfort zone. Don't think that you will actually realize all your fantasies, but remember there's no harm in enjoying them within the privacy of your own mind.

Well, I wasn't when I woke up this morning, but I SURE AS HELL AM NOW!

Update: My fortune cookie from lunch says, "Unveil your ideas. Be ready to act on them." Okay, I'm not going to go on another rant about how THAT'S NOT A FORTUNE, but when you combine it with the above...somebody is trying to get me arrested.

Even if I DON'T add the "in my pants."

You know....

It's not every day you see a black man....

on roller skates...

carrying a wok.

On a scale of 1 to 10...Round 2

So the other section was less interesting, but there were some highlights:

Talk too fast: 5
Enthusiasm = good: 6
SO HOT!: 1
You like me. RIGHT NOW, YOU LIKE ME!: 11, if we're including aforementioned enthusiasm = good folk
Yeah, well, I didn't like you either: 2
Phone numbers to call to discuss ranting evaluation: 1
Rhyming couplets consisting of one compliment for me and one insult for my colleague: 1
Incessant test whining: there is no incessant test whining. Okay, there's actually quite a lot of that, but if a student whines in an evaluation and no one cares to read it, does it make the tests easier?
Marriage proposals involving extended chemistry puns: 1

Yep, that last one takes the Tina Fey award for most entertaining evaluation. In its entirety:
"M., WILL YOU MARRY ME?
YOU'RE SO ELECTRONEGATIVE. I am not...
deltaE > 2
We can form a STRONG ionic bond!"

Oh, Cyrano de Einstein...if only that read deltaEN, we might have had a chance...

Missed Commutercation

First of all, if you were dying to comment on my "Irresistible Bitch" entry below, the comments have now been enabled. Not sure how they got disabled in the first place, but it's been fixed. I would hate for you lovely people to think I didn't want your feedback. ;)

That being said, on to today's entry:

This morning I was enjoying my morning commute - weather warm enough to not wear a jacket, rereading the book from which this blog takes its name, wearing a new shirt and no socks (I am, deep down, a barefoot redneck, and I hate that my lab is kept too cold to wear sandals in the summer - any time my tootsies can get a little fresh air is a Red Letter Day, even if it is just my heels peeking out from my mules). On the last leg of my trip, I change to the yellow train to travel the last couple of stops to work as I always do, and I notice a rather attractive man on the car. He's about my age, dressed casually but quite well, just scruffy enough that I feel confident that he's not gay...just a generally very appealing fellow. Approximately the same type as the VGLM, actually. Feeling good and confident in my new-shirted/sockless high, I stand near him, hoping to make a little harmless, flirtatious eye contact before we get to Queen's Park.

Unfortunately, he had his earbuds in and never once lifted his eyes from his paper.

Damn.

I remain convinced that the iPod is the single worst thing that's ever happened to random flirtation on public transit.

And it's times like these that I really wish I were the kind of girl with the balls to slip a random hot guy my number as I walk off the train. That would have been badass.

On a scale of 1 to 10...

Okay, actually, it was a scale of 1 to 7, but I got one set of my student evaluations back today. While I'm not really comfortable with the fact that they rated myself and one of the other instructors (the one who took over after me) on the same sheet, thereby ensuring that I have now read all of her evals and she mine, I have to admit that it is more informative that way. Someone rating you "adequate" on a particular question may actually be raving about you (if they rated your colleague "very poor"), flaming you (if they rated said colleague "outstanding"), or genuinely never noticed whether it was you delivering that lecture or merely a surprisingly articulate hedgehog. And yeah, I'm taking a little bit of petty comfort in the fact that a healthy number of them rated me a notch higher, sometimes more, on most of the questions (although there were definitely some that went the other way, but I seem to have won the popularity contest). Even if that notch is just a matter of "poor" instead of "very poor," a little perspective helps soften the blow.

However, It's the blank area on the back where they are allowed to write anonymous comments that is always the most informative. The current standings, keeping in mind that I have only received the forms from the morning section, are as follows:

Some variation of "M. is hot/soo hot/I love you M.! Hot!": 3 1/2 (see below)
People who appreciate my enthusiasm/sense of humor: 6
People who are not amused, or at least not at 9AM: 4
I talk too fast: 5 (am expecting this number to be lower in the afternoon section, as I tend to talk faster when people are not amused, and nobody warns you about the adverse effects of immediate post-morning coffee exposure when registering for morning classes)
People who think I am a cat lover (???): 1
Uses of the word "incompetent": 1
Stick figure drawings depicting me using what appears to be a 3-foot twig penis (or possibly lightsaber - it's longer than my leg, yet juts straight out from my stick crotch) to cut my colleague in half: 1
Number of whiny little bastards that complained about the tests/grading/labs being too hard: oh, lost count and don't really care
"Raise the roof, nigga!!!": 1

And my favorite:
"M. was fun and quirky. She was a good lecturer who reminded a few of us of Tina Fey."

I enjoy that comment for a few reasons, aside from the obvious:
a) I do love me some Tina Fey - I happen to think this qualifies as the extra 1/2 in the "hot" tally - and kind of wish we could be best friends. I mean seriously, how awesome would my wedding be if my bridesmaids were #1, Em, and TinamotherfuckingFey? Wahoowa!!! FYP RULES!!!
2) The use of the phrase "a few of us." That implies that an actual conversation has been had to this effect, and a consensus has been reached.
iii) The word "fun." I believe I've said this in a previous post, but my ambition as a teacher is not to make chemists of these kids. Some of them love chemistry, some of them are only taking it because their parents still believe they're going to get into med school someday. I'm not idealistic enough to think that, in a class of 750, I'm going to help every last one of them see the light and discover a hidden passion for quantum mechanics and colligative properties. But I can feel pretty good about myself if I can manage to make the process a little more fun.

So I'll update this after I've seen the other section (I've seen the numerical report and indeed, it does appear that they liked me better than the morning section...I just haven't seen the actual comments yet) but to sum up at halftime: they think I'm hot but at least as of my latest Facebook search they are not yet stalking me, the amuseds outnumber the not amuseds, me = Tina Fey, and I apparently wield a mean penis/lightsaber. I think I'm going to go ahead and call that a successful semester.

Raise the roof, indeed.

Irresistible Bitch?

The other night, I was having dinner with a couple of friends. One of them asked, "What's the worst pickup line anyone has ever used on you?" And I couldn't really think of one - I have friends that have heard some AWFUL ones, but I couldn't think of a truly bad pickup line that's ever been used on me.

Today the reason occurred to me: I never get hit on.

Now, I realize the primary reason for this is that I don't typically go out to the places where guys hit on chicks. When I go out to bars, it's usually with my guy friends, and guys don't hit on you when you're hanging out with other guys. Fair enough. And on the rare occasion that I've been out at a club, I get randomly groped without fail (one of the perils of knowing how to effectively shake one's ass is that every guy in the club associates that ability with a girl that wants to Get Down. Dude...I do, as a matter of fact, enjoy Getting Down, but just because I know how to shake The Booty doesn't mean that grabbing it is an acceptable means of introduction.), but actual pickups are hard to come by. The only line I ever seem to get is, "Can I buy you a drink?" and those are even few and far between - I've gotten quite accustomed to picking up my own tab.

I'm not sure why this is. And don't try to use the "men are intimidated by a smart and attractive woman" argument. That might hold for people that know me, but strangers don't know I'm smart, and while I understand why men might be intimidated by a woman who is 5'10" and drop-dead gorgeous, I'm 5'3" and still look like I'm 16. I should be about as approachable as it gets - I'm Cute, but not Hot... maybe pretty, but not Beautiful.

I just don't get it.

Later in the conversation with this same friend, I was telling him something about another friend of mine, and he made some comment about how said friend is probably scared of me. I joked, "Why, do I scare you?" and his response was, "You scare the crap out of me!" That answer was entirely too quick and earnest to have been anything other than a gut response.

I caught him on IM later and asked him why. Scaring men - particularly smart, attractive, sweet ones such as this particular friend - is not something I want to do. He thought carefully about his response, and said, "It's just that you have very strong opinions. You need to be with a very confident guy who will have equally strong opinions and who can hold an intelligent debate. A less confident guy would just get run over. You wouldn't mean to do it, but it would happen nonetheless."

Now, this guy is one of my crushes - has been, pretty much since I moved here. He is incredibly smart, easy to be around, and very intriguing. He may or may not be reading this, which is why it has taken me a few days to write this entry - I wasn't sure whether or not I wanted to talk about this on the off-chance that he might read it. But the fact remains, I now have proof that I scare men.

More importantly, I scare the kind of men that I would really like to date.

I've been told by people (among others, my parents, who make no secret of the fact that they are dying for me to settle down and procreate already) that I am too picky. And sometimes I wonder if they're right. But at the same time, over the last year, the grand total of men with whom I have gone out on anything that even remotely resembles a date comes to approximately:

...two.

It's not like I'm beating them off with a stick - they never even get within striking distance.

So I'm thinking I need to make a change of some sort. Obviously, I'm putting something out there that scares them off, and I don't want to do that. After all, you can't reject them if they're too scared and/or turned off to approach you in the first place. I need to find a new balance, because the one I'm currently holding is getting me nowhere; something is clearly out of whack, I just can't figure out what. The incredible guys without much confidence are scared of me...the incredible guys who ARE confident scare the crap out of ME. The guys who fall somewhere in the middle just... aren't that interesting. (shrug)

Last night, I was having this conversation with an old friend. He just said to me, "Beth -- just be yourself....you have a natural balance...don't try to create one."

Easy for you to say. You've known me since I was an insecure, 15-year-old weenie, and as an adult, you're one of the major reasons I don't trust men or my own judgement (this particular friend is a whole 'nother entry all his own). You think I'm balanced because, as far as you're concerned, I haven't changed since 10th grade.

I guess in a lot of ways I haven't. It's just that I've gotten very good at hiding that. Maybe that's the problem.

Alert

Because I'm sure you're all dying to know, and I haven't posted anything about him in a while, the VGLM is looking particularly attractive today. We now resume your not so regularly scheduled blogging, already in progress.

The Truth Hurts

Tonight I was slapped in the face by a series of harsh truths. I'm not going to go into detail here - suffice it to say that they came from a variety of sources, regarding a variety of different topics: who I am...how I am perceived...who my friends are. Over the last month or so, I've been feeling like I need some sort of change - not like a new job, a new apartment, or a new hobby, but a change from within. I'm feeling a little off-kilter...in need of an emotional tune-up of sorts. I'm still not sure what that change needs to be exactly, but maybe tonight will set the gears in motion.

Bear with me, folks.

Huh huh...That's what he said...

...Much as I would LOVE it if my blogger profile read "69 posts" forever, I have a couple more pics to share with you guys. More exist, but these are the least incriminating.

If you tilt your head and squint, you can kind of see the interesting parts of my dress in this shot. There are a total of 8 straps criss-crossing my back there, and I LOVE the hem, even though it looks better from the front. My shoes are also fabulous, but you REALLY can't tell in the picture. Suffice it to say, the mileage I covered that night in those 3 1/2-inch heels SHOULD have left me completely immobile the next day. Steve Madden is a god.

Please ignore the poor posture. It was cold and I was rather intoxicated. Snuggling up to your date enough to keep warm without making him uncomfortable is a highly underrated skill. Not one I'm entirely convinced I possess, but he was equally intoxicated, so it's all good.

By the way, to those of you who are currently judging him for not giving me his coat: he offered. I declined.

I did, however, steal it from him an hour or two later.

And I feel the need to include this one as well, just because I think it's adorable:
That's BNL's girlfriend. We love her - she's a doll.

Okay, I believe I am officially done being all annoying and girly. I promise to post something more bitchy and/or butchy soon. But maybe not right away...I've been watching WAY too much Sex and the City lately, and the weather has been rather warm, so I find myself wanting to wear skirts and heels and be all ladylike and shit.

What?

In case you were wondering...

...It DID fit her like a sausage casing.
Since some of you spent the better part of last week asking, nay, DEMANDING to see pictures from this formal, here's what I looked like:

Unfortunately, the pretty parts of my dress are the back and bottom, and I don't know if anyone actually managed to take a full-length shot of me. At any rate, I have been assured that more pictures will be headed my way a little later in the week, so those fit for public consumption may make it up here temporarily. That's my date on the right - one of my non-Chemistry labmates, and now quite proficient in The Box. If he can make it work (he even got so advanced as to open the box, take out a smaller one, and proceed without ever missing a beat - don't try that one at home), anyone can. Despite the disappointing assortment of music, a truly good time was had by all. I managed to drink red wine all night (while dancing) without spilling any on my flesh-toned dress - If that doesn't spell success, I don't know what does.

Oh, and by the way, if you didn't recognize the title of my previous post, it's a song by N.E.R.D. Track it down and give it a listen - I am seriously contemplating making it my new theme song. Not to the exclusion of Sexy M.F. necessarily, but it has definitely earned a prime spot on my soundtrack. And that's the Original Life Soundtrack, not the lame-ass Music From and Inspired by the Life Album.

She Wants to Move

Something I have suspected and now confirmed about myself:

I am not white enough to be Canadian.

To look at me, I'm about as white as they come. My German/Irish heritage has left me with fair skin, blue eyes, and a rather uninteresting ash blonde haircolor. Physically, I fit right in with most of white Canada, and if it weren't for my general American obnoxiousness, I could probably pass myself off as a true Canuck if I really wanted to.

Until you get to The Booty.

I'm not sure where it came from - you don't often hear about the lusciousness of German asses or those kickin' Irish curves. But I was born with it, and many many years of dance have honed it to the point that it's one of my standout features. It has converted more than one professed Boob Man into an Ass Man.

The Booty is the one part of me that is Black.

Okay, maybe just Latina.

Friday night, I went to the Chem Club Spring Formal. The DJ came around during dinner, asking for requests once the dancing began. The people at my table requested things such as Madonna, salsa music...the funkiest it got was Justin Timberlake and (eye roll) Nelly Furtado.

(Side note: don't get me wrong...I love me some SexyBack. Favorite conversation of the night:

Me: [Friend], are you bringing sexy back?
Friend: Yes. It didn't work for me, so I am returning it.

And while I do enjoy some Nelly Furtado now that she's found the Funk, she gets way too much play here because she's Canadian. It's like going into a club in St. Louis - while I love me some Nelly, Chingy, etc., you leave desperately wishing they would play someone...ANYONE...who can pronounce the word "here" correctly. There are only so many times I can listen to Maneater and Promiscuous without screaming, and that threshold has been passed several times over since I moved here.)

Then the DJ got to me, and I decided what the hell.

Me: Do you happen to have Da Butt?
Lame-Ass White DJ: Um, what?
Me: (singing) Doin' da butt...ow, sexy sexy!
L-AWDJ: That's OLD...like, 70's?
Me: (completely appalled)

Dude, try 1988. You are about the same age as me, and while I am used to people not recognizing that song, YOU ARE A FREAKING DJ. But you are WAY more White and Nerdy than Ridin' Dirty - I should have known you would be too hopelessly white to play it for me. Even if it WERE that old, it wouldn't have killed you to at least play some decent 70's funk. Your throwback choices were ABBA...the Bee Gees...you could have at least thrown me the Brick House bone.

If I had asked for Pussy Control, you would have given me the Pussycat Dolls. (shudder)

Even some of the better choices were obnoxiously predictable...the aforementioned SexyBack...Golddigger...he played Drop it Like it's Hot, and the people I was with had to ask who sang it.

In a sea of white and Chinese chemists and engineers, The Booty stands out. My date at one point said, "You can dance...you've got some MOVES!" When you're born with a big butt and you go through school with a lot of black kids, you adopt a certain....style. In those days, I listened almost exclusively to hip-hop and R&B - rock didn't really have much of a presence on my playlist until I went to college. Even now, my favorite "rock" groups are those that have a funk element - I usually feel rock in my chest, hip-hop and funk in my hips, and my all-time favorite artists are those that can blend the two. And while my tastes have changed over the years, and groups and singers come and go from my rotation, The Booty never gets tired of classic funk, old-school rap and hip-hop. Proper dancing should make you sweat - it should make your thighs, butt, abs, and shoulders WORK. You can't DO that to Nelly Furtado.

I mean, even The Wedding Singer knew to throw in some Rapper's Delight every now and then.

The Booty has recently reconnected with an old middle/high school friend that lives in town. He remembers it from as long ago as 7th grade. As much as we have tried to avoid the club scene, I think it's going to have to cave and call him to get some help seeking out some quality ass-shakin' music in the Great White North. It had pretty much been hibernating for a long time, trapped in small-town Indiana for years...only putting in perfunctory appearances at weddings and such...but Friday night awakened it.

It's back, and this time, it's pissed off.

The Bigger the Cushion, the Sweeter the Pushin'

So, I went out with the eHarmony guy again tonight, and while it was a thoroughly meh date (to be fair, I'm PMSing pretty badly at the moment, so it may be entirely my fault that it was meh, so I'm debating whether I owe it one more try before I drop the Friend Bomb), it involved post-dinner coffee, so I am currently still too caffeinated to sleep, even though it is about midnight and I still have to get to work at a decent time tomorrow. And I am reminded that there is nothing...I mean NOTHING on TV at 11:30. This is why if I am up at this time, I am usually washing my face...moisturizing...doing all of those things girls do before they go to bed, and I usually finish just in time to snuggle up and watch Arrested Development as I doze off to sleep. But I'm too wired for bedtime rituals just yet, so naturally, I turn to you, dear blog.

Anyway, this weekend I decided that, since I was set to start tap classes this week and the weather is finally starting to be somewhat consistently nice, it was a good time for me to start keeping track of my fitness level again. Last year around this time, inspired by Celebrity Fit Club, I started doing a set of fitness assessments on myself. Nothing big, just keeping track of the time it takes me to do a short run...number of pushups I can do in a minute... crunches... weight, and some miscellaneous measurements and my body fat content. I kept this up for about two months, but when I left my apartment in Lafayette I no longer had my running trail, so I had no way to relate any further progress to my original baseline. Plus, I was eating and drinking pretty much whatever I wanted, since I was moving back in with Mom and Dad for a while and they are a really bad influence on me. Once I moved here, I was focusing entirely on correcting my bad eating habits, and I find I do best if I focus on either diet OR exercise - if I try to do both at the same time, I just end up blowing them both off in an alarmingly short period of time.

So now that my eating habits are under control again (mostly) and my weight has pretty much stabilized, I can focus on just generally getting healthier. So I figured out a short running route around my neighborhood that will serve as a good test for me - it's short enough that I'll eventually be able to run all of it, but it doesn't take very long and therefore doesn't kill my knees. And I set my new baseline on Sunday. Some things I noticed in the process:

1. As I had always suspected, my old complex TOTALLY lied about that trail being a mile long. Because I refuse to believe that I could be that much slower now, when I'm pushing around 15 fewer lbs.

2. Either nobody in my neighborhood jogs, or I looked REALLY good in my baggy track pants, because every single person I jogged past kind of stared at me. I think it was the former - I almost never see joggers unless I'm downtown. My neighbors get enough exercise chasing their kids and dogs around. But I ran about 3/4 of the loop, which was more than I thought I'd be able to do my first time out, so I felt pretty good about that.

3. Now this one I knew was coming - my calves are NOT used to running. Every time I go for a jog after a while of not doing it, I know to expect at least a couple of days of nearly incapacitating calf soreness. The other muscles in my legs might be sore, and the pushups usually leave me a little rough, but nothing debilitating. Once I go out one or two times, I'm fine and my calves adjust but DAMN does that first time suck. Especially when the next day you're going to tap class, where you spend an hour DELIBERATELY ISOLATING YOUR CALF MUSCLES. They didn't really start to seize up on me until I was walking back to my office after class - it took me until I got home to figure out why I was suddenly so much more uncomfortable. I've been hobbling around the lab for two days now trying not to wince every time I get up from my chair. I have not been succeeding. I think the worst of it is now over, so maybe tomorrow I'll go out for my second try. On the bright side, my poor tight calves should look fabulous in the heels I'm wearing to that formal next week.

4. Eh, whatever.

5. While my number of crunches is the same as it was a year ago, my pushups have improved - again, you gotta love having less mass to actually have to push up. This and the run time are the numbers I will be watching - my situp ability has been pretty much the same ever since I started taking ballet as a kid and we had to do psychotic ab exercises.

6. Now this is the part that blows my mind - I already knew that my weight was down, and as it turns out my body fat percentage is down about 6%, which makes me really happy. And when I did my measurements, my waist and hips had each lost about an inch or so. But get this - I lost not one, but TWO inches ON EACH THIGH. How the HELL does that happen??? Seriously??? While I think my legs look better than they used to, I'm having a hard time fathoming how they could have both had two extra inches on them a year ago - what were they then, country hams??? My mom has been saying that my legs look better now than they EVER have, and in the face of this evidence, I think I have to admit that she's right.

Now, you may be asking why I've just written all of these things down. The reason is quite simple - I need you folks to keep me honest. This is only helpful if I do it regularly so I can see my progress. So these are the rules of the game (they are ridiculously simple):

1. I have to do my little run/pushups/situps routine at least 3 times a week.
2. I have to actually take the stats once a month.
3. I have to report back to you people - I don't have to provide the stats, just comment so you all know I'm doing it. If I see improvement in myself, I'll expect you all to congratulate me, if I don't, I'll expect you to call me out for clearly not following rule #1. And if you don't hear anything from me on this topic around the beginning of next month, then I expect you to call me out for clearly not following rule #2. And #3.

If I can lose 5 more lbs., that will officially put me into the "fitness" range of body fat content instead of "acceptable," and that would be really cool. I may not be training for marathons or century rides (coughcoughWILLandIANcough), but I would still appreciate your support in achieving my meager little goals.

How NOT to make a first impression.

I went out with a friend this evening for a little happy hour type thing that she goes to every Tuesday - just a couple of random people that she meets for a couple of beers, onion rings, and wings. So my friend introduces me to the two people we're meeting... typical small talk ensues... she mentions that I am, like her, from the States, so the natural next question is, "Oh? Where are you from?" My standard answer is "Virginia." Now, considering recent events, I probably should have gone with "Washington, D.C." in order to avoid the awkward nod of recognition that results from EVERYONE having heard of my home state in the last few weeks in a less than positive light (I used to avoid telling people I was from D.C. for very similar reasons).

Now, that being said, there are a number of ways you can respond when someone says they are from Virginia.

"Ahh...Virginia...I hear it's easy to...buy guns there" is NOT one of them.

I pretended to laugh because, contrary to my previous entry, I am not a complete bitch, and the person in question did seem to begin to realize what he had just said - he actually followed up with, "I'm sorry...that's probably...not even a little bit funny."

Then why are you still laughing, asshole?

50 Ways to Slap Your Labmate

So this morning I'm working at my bench, making solutions for the experiments I want to run today, and Labmate comes in. She says hi, settles in at her desk, and promptly comes over to my bench with an expectant look on her face.

Me: What's up?
LM: Oh, nothing.
Me: (crickets)
LM: So, how was yesterday???
Me: What about yesterday?
LM: Where did you go???
Me: I...didn't...go anywhere(?)
LM: I thought you went out.
Me: I went...to tap class, but that's it.
LM: Oh, when I came back at 6:30 and saw you were out, I thought you had a date or something!
Me: If I'm not here, it's probably safe to say the last thing you should assume is that I'm on a date.
LM: I thought maybe you'd met some cute guy or something!

I know it's asking a lot of her to allow me to have a life that doesn't involve her, but shit like this is seriously starting to get on my nerves.

Oh, and if you think I'm being a bit unreasonable in finding her annoying, here's a little anecdote for you. A couple of weeks ago, Labmate informs me that her boyfriend is supposed to go to a salsa competition (as in the dance, not the tasty condiment) on what is supposed to be their first anniversary. Keep in mind that LM MET the boyfriend through salsa - it's something he's very involved in and passionate about, and to my knowledge his only hobby (and I know all too well how lifesaving a hobby can be when one is in the final throes of graduate school). She was very adamant that if he went to this competition instead of spending their anniversary with her, that she was breaking it off. Seems to me an anniversary is about celebrating each other, your love, and your ability to survive whatever life has thrown at you in the last year. The actual date on which you celebrate is pretty meaningless, as far as I'm concerned, so I told her I thought she was being a bit extreme about it.

LM cannot be swayed, and a few days later gets into a huge fight with the boyfriend, and delivers the very threat she has told me she is going to.

He caves.

Not only did he cave, but this is the anniversary itinerary, as gleaned from the PHOTOS SHE POSTED ON FACEBOOK:

1. Snacks in the Distillery District - fantastic (and fairly pricey) chocolates, pastries, etc.
2. Dinner at the revolving restaurant on top of the CN Tower. This is NOT a cheap dining experience - my major excuse for not having been up in the CN Tower yet (aside from my massive fear of heights) is the exorbitant cost of admission just to get up there. And they did it right...appetizers, desserts, etc. - I mean, I get it, it's your anniversary, you want to go all-out, but dude...on a grad student's salary??? Oh, and while LM was making little jokes in her captions about the boyfriend's etiquette classes paying off, apparently those same classes taught them that it's perfectly acceptable in a nice restaurant to MAKE THE WAITER TAKE YOUR PICTURE. REPEATEDLY.
3. Pastries from LM's favorite bakery (i.e., the bakery she discovered a week ago and is now suddenly her favorite) and icewine back at home to end the evening. Again, special occasion or no, icewine is a luxury item that any grad student I know has no business buying.
4. If there was a #4, I sure as hell don't want to know what it was.

Any one of these alone would have been plenty to make me happy were I celebrating an anniversary. Frankly, a quiet dinner at home would probably have been preferable to any of them. But this is apparently what I'm doing wrong, because apparently I SHOULD be making completely selfish and unreasonable demands, so that some man can go ABOVE AND BEYOND my already unreasonably high expectations. And then maybe I can post photo albums on Facebook with lots of exclamation points and excitable misspellings that make people stop articulating sentences and just make "phffffft!!!" noises at their monitors, accompanied by all manner of rude gestures.

Don't get me wrong...she can be very sweet. I just don't understand why any man would put up with her shit.

If God has a sense of humor, that little red dress she bought for formal and has been "dieting" to fit into will look like a sausage casing.