Exercise Shmexercise

Yesterday I braved the ever-dreaded task of visiting the gym.  I say visiting, because I, like many, fear the gym and its kind and feel like a visitor rather than a member.  

Luckily my body looks like it belongs at the gym, but my mind doesn't.  Generally I am far too clumsy to face the major machines that all the body builders use, so I hit the women's only center when no one can laugh at my lack of coordination and my sweat stains.  But unfortunately, yesterday I was stuck with everyone else in the small smelly room of bikes and elliptical trainers.

Being rather a gym dunce, I noticed a new machine and was immediate curious.  It was part bike, part video game.  I could sit there and bike to chase people and animals and win a race! Being the sucker that I am, I ran for the machine.  

First try--I biked away and was miles behind all the other bikers on my course.  There was no way in hell I could do this I thought as I panted away.  After paroozing the menu I found a handicap that aids you in your race.  Two miles and ten minutes later, the finish line and pit stains were mine! WOOT! 

Except I couldn't walk. For a good 10 minutes. And the the computer was so kind as to tell me I shouldn't consider using the regular version until I can reduce my handicap by at least 20%.  20 freaking percent and spaghetti thighs.  Woopty freaking do. 

Gym Technology?  Officially not for everyone.



I have had two true addictions in life: weight loss and peanut butter (in that order).

Towards the end of high school, in attempts to health up my diet, I went with the trends: low carb, high greens.  The result was around a ten pound loss.  My new shape and sugar free rush was amazing.  I began to obsess over eating healthier foods.  Leaner meats.  Less processing.  No chocolate.  I hadn't done drugs, but now knew I didn't need to, this was the best feeling of my life.

College hit. So did addiction number two.  I cannot truly explain the joy of eating peanut butter. Creamy or chunky, 100% or full of additives, it didn't matter.  I was no pb snob.  It was creamy and sweet, nutty and fabulous.  The only problem--it was never enough.  In class, I'd pull out a mini jar from the convenience store and a plastic fork--spoons were too easy.  I had to work for my pleasure.

Needless to say, 30 pounds plus, I quit. Cold turkey.  And quittin' ain't easy.

I am here today to fess up to my latest addiction: etsy.  I have become a slave to the internet's largest handmade community, and I need help.  Every day I sit in front of my screen, clicking, refreshing, hoping, praying, screaming in frustrating agony at my laptop.  I just cannot take my eyes away.  Only for moment like this and when my bladder beckons to I have the mental strength to change the page.

My name is Bobbi Noodle, and I'm an etsy addict.


Where has all the spermicide gone?

A friend goes to the drugstore. (I'm settin' this up like a bad joke)

He's gone in search of spermicide.  He checks out the sexy-time aisle.  He finds her pleasure. His pleasure. Lambskin.  A shit load of money suckin' fun.  Whoever said sex was free had obviously never set foot in a drugstore.

He scans the aisle.  Nothing.  Double-checks.  Still nada.  Finds a clerk.  They try again.  Call the pharmacist.  Take three.  Where is the manager?
Four grown men find themselves on all fours crawling past everything other than the gelly they seek, the loudspeaker blaring more assistance to aisle 12.  

So with this I ask, how many grown men does it take to find spermicide?  Or rather, where has all the spermicide gone?  It sure hasn't gone to the flowers, that is for sure.

Have all the fancy inventions in the form of pills, patches, and rings made the need for spermicide obsolete? Or is just this another case of the impending threat of manhood found in the sexy-time aisle?


My New Man: Heythere47

I wish Speed Date would stop suggesting men to me.  Can it not see that I am otherwise unavailable and have no desire to meet Heythere47 or any of his skeevy bros?  It is times like these I feel the technology of social networking has gone too far.

Let's be honest, I'm a child of technology, but when facebook is constantly telling me that I should met lame and lamer, even though my profile distinctly states that I am taken, I begin to question facebook's intelligence.  But then again, when facebook's profile tailored adds scroll through on my boyfriend's account, they are definitely tailored to the gay man, so maybe I should give Heythere47 my number.  Maybe facebook think's I'm the man...

It is like twitter.  Yes, I care that Jen broke Johns heart.  I would rather read it on twitter than pay for a smutty magazine to read it second hand, so on some level twitter seems inventive.  No one cares what I ate for breakfast, but I probably tweeted about it just for kicks, because, like Speed Date, it is easy to ignore, until one day it isn't.

When that day comes, I will still probably be eating a grilled cheese sandwich, just incase you didn't want to know.


The Luck of the Irish

Every year I patiently wait for the one day of the year I don't have to think about what to wear.  This morning I careless threw on whatever was lying around, and effortlessly managed to dress in 3 green garments before turning on the radio to be reminded that yet again, I have managed to effortlessly dress for the greenest day of the year.

On this day, I find myself contemplating the luck of the irish.  I myself am about 1/8th potato loving--ironic I know because I strongly dislike potatoes, but I find a new sense of irony that on the greenest day of the year I find myself seeking a new treatment for a disease which is also ironically named after my favorite color.  Lime green...or rather Lyme Disease.

As something I generally avoid to discuss due to my wild imagination that keeps me focused on the groutfitti that plagues the men's room or the newest daily candy, today I just want to take a moment to relish (also green) in the irony of my own St. Patty's Day.

So here is to being green friends.


Ding Dong the Economy Ain't Dead

I was just out an about (among the cyberbots that is) and ran across a great blog column about the economy.  Granted, it isn't difficult considering every fifth entry is about our current suffering economy, which led me to wonder if businesses are really failing just because of the economy.

Personally, I spend my spare change on dinning out--ok, eating frozen yogurt, but still--and necessities like toilet paper, kinoki foot pads, and think thin bars (creamy peanut butter is the best, try it. seriously.) 
So thanks to people like me, local eateries are doing just fine. But then again, everyone has gotta eat.

But what about other places? We still need to wear clothes.  We still want to buy electronics.  Granted I don't want to buy them now that Circuit City is gone, but someday soon I will need too.  Face the facts.  We are American's--consumers by nature.  We can't really just blame business failure on the economy.  

Perhaps the average business man has lost his knack for the advertising world--we can't all be as sexy, smart, and lung cancer free as Don Draper.  Or, perhaps advertising just don't get to us the way it used to.  Ipod commercials were cool once, but now, not so much.

So who's fault is it?  Wallstreet? Bush? You? Me?

All I know, is whether we like it or not, everything can be caused by the economy's ability to earn a passing grade.


The Hurry Up and Wait

Today I have been a repeat victim of The Hurry UP and Wait--THUW for short.  The agony of stressful rushing, my nagging impulse to be on time to all destinations, and the world's laziness and causality has led to today's episodes of THUW.  In attempts to console my poor THUW-sing situation, I have come up with a McGyver inspired list of THUW Activities.   

1. Pick ingrown hairs with my mailbox key.
2. Write a whitty haiku: 

oranges taste like spam.
oh wait. took the wrong bite. oh.
oranges sound good now

3. Make a mental list of all the things I would rather be doing than waiting:
-properly removing my ingrown hairs.
-eating actual oranges
-promoting world peace.

4. Time myself holding my breath and not blinking, just incase I need those skills in the future.

5. Practice my circular breathing for a potential future as an infamous female digeridoo player.

6.  Or. maybe I could just convince the world to be on time, so I don't have to hurry up and wait.


the end is...

This afternoon I got in the car for my horrendous commute home, to learn that my favorite radio show was broadcasting its last show.  For a moment, I wanted to burst into tears, throw my car over an embankment and sacrifice myself to ensure the continuation of the B Team radio show.

With this impulse, I began to think about other ends.  Mostly television ends.  I am sure I cried when Ally McBeal ended. Friends was bittersweet.  I can't even say the words Loreli and Rory without getting choked up.  But why?

Have I become far too attached to the media?  Yes and no.  While I'm sure I could find a very expensive, spec wearing doc to tell me that I suffer from emotional issues, I beg to differ.  Rory and I went to college together.  She was there for the hard times.  When I wanted to hear someone else complain about the horrors of Thanksgiving, Chandler had a handfuls of one-liners.  I can't even begin to discuss the comfort of Ally's dancing baby.

It is only human nature that we make deep and meaningful connections to those people, places, or things that become routine.  Tomorrow I will twist the ignition, the antenna will rise,  and the sultry Aussie voice of Biron, and the catty snapping of Chrissy will not be there to guide me home.  Perhaps I am dramatic.  But I prefer sentimental.