Lifted

Straight from the EBP site. This fucking site highlights just how cliche and stereotypical I really am. I used to love my fucking Top Siders. Anyway, this episode of the Boondocks reminded me of when BET was sold, and I started to talk to my family and friends about why I would never support BET from here forward.

Funny.




Personnel!!!! How are fuckin up Niggas money?

Why Yes, Thank You. They Are Contacts!

I have brown eyes. Regular, normal, run of the mill, right smack dab in the middle of an African-American phenotype- brown eyes.

I don't wear contacts, (Oh, Susan, I know that I told you in an e-mail that I wear contacts. That was a joke. I have 20/15 vision. If you're not Susan, this will not make any sense to you. And, you will have a hard time coming up with a context wherein telling someone that you wear contacts when you don't is funny. Don't bother. I'm pretty good at wrangling humor, and it was actually a stretch.) never wore contacts. Just eyes.

I had a strange day today. I fell into a light coma after my ride. In fact, I slept so long that I missed my friend's wedding. (Sorry about that K! I feel really bad. It was good sleep though, if that makes you feel better.) Even though I missed the wedding, I figured that at least I could get a haircut before hitting the reception.

My normal hair cutter was out for the day, ironically, because he was photographing a wedding, but the other guy was there. Now, I just needed a quick haircut, and he asked me to stick around and told me he would cut my hair. I ran to grab some cash and came back. Now, there was a long ass line of folks who'd come in while I was gone to get cash. Am I ahead of them, or are they ahead of me? Obviously, the two of us had a difference of opinion. After an hour of waiting I got up to leave, and he runs after me into the parking lot to waive me down. Why? Why??? Because he wants my phone number! (WTF?!?!?!)

Let's say I wanted to sex you. Let's just say. Uhm, I would give you preferential treatment, right? Uhm, cuz I want to sex you. But at the very least, I would treat you fairly. I wouldn't overlook you for 40 minutes, and then run you down in a parking lot. (Men are silly.)

So, I drive across town to a different shop, and when I sit down in the guy's chair we chat for a bit. Blah, blah, blah. Then he says, "You have incredibly beautiful eyes." Now, just as I'm saying, "Thank you," he says one of the craziest things I've heard since 1986.

"I thought they were contacts, but they're your eyes. They are beautiful."

Now, I don't think I said anything other than, "They're brown," but I thought, "Uhm Negro, my eyes look just like yours, and hers, and his, and everyone else in the the room." I thought about telling him that my eyes are light grey, but I wear brown contacts because more people notice me that way. Yeah, I'm just African-American, but a lot of people think I have ambiguous ethnicity because I have brown eyes. Its a real conversation starter, but honestly it can get tiresome. Sometimes I wish I just had eyes like everyone else. Oh wait- I do.

You Don't Want To Be My Workout Partner

Honestly, you don't. In the name of all that is holy, listen to me and spare yourself the agony.

It's not because I'm unreasonable, or I'll push you beyond your limits. I'm not unreliable when you really need someone to show up, or even motivate you. As far as those qualities go, I'm top notch. Hell! I'm so good there, I could be a personal trainer. I'm fucking awesome.

But, don't get sucked in! Use restraint. Why wouldn't you want to be my workout partner?

Let me tell you a story:

I woke up this morning at 7 on the nose. The first thing I remembered was that I was pretty excited about going for a bike ride. That was yesterday's excitement, today I just wanted to sleep, and a bike ride was about the farthest thing from what my legs were asking for.

I argued and rationalized, and debated with myself over whether I would go for a ride. About an hour later, when I honestly told myself that I would go, except for the price of gas, I realized that I might as well get up and go for a decent ride.

I got my bike and filled up on $4.99 gas so that I could driveout to the trail (WTF!!?!?!!? I'm not happy about this shit!), and rode my bike up and down mild inclines for an hour. I didn't go full out at any point, just an hour of moderately strenuous exercise.

At the end of my workout, I stretched and hopped in my car and drove back into town. Windows down, driving down the freeway; it was niiiice.

So, after 10 minutes I started to realize that I was hungry, and if I went home to shower, I would be too tired afterwards to go out and get food. And, since I didn't want to eat a couple of bowls of Chex, I decided to pull over and grab some meal-making supplies.

When I got off the highway, and pulled into the Publix parking lot, I thought a sewer main had broken, or maybe a water treatment plant was nearby. "What the fuck is that smell???"

And suddenly, it dawned on me. That smell was me!! I was emanating the most god-awful stench that I had ever smelled in my life. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that it was nauseating. Nauseating, you know? Like I fucking wanted to throw up!

So, just to be sure (and maybe because I'm a little retarded in sectors of my brain), I lifted my arm, buried my nose in my armpit, and took a big deep whiff. (Mistake.)

My armpit smelled like a rancid vagina. Like, let's say you had a vagina, not a woman, just a dismembered vagina. Now, since it's not attached to a living body, you're going to have to take special care with this vagina, or it may begin to decompose, and get kinda stinky in the process. If you had a dismembered vagina, you may want to keep it in the fridge, or maybe freeze it until you decide to do whatever you do with a dismembered vagina.

Okay.

Now let's say that you took that vagina, and rather than refrigerating it, you threw it in the corner of your basement. Musty, a little bit dank, but certainly dark, that basement, and left it there for a week. Then for some reason, your mom told you to get that damn vagina out of her basement, so you put it outside under a tree. You were nervous that your dog would think it was a toy, so you decided to put the vagina in a ziplock sandwich bag. Then you leave town for three or four days, and when you get back, you notice that the vagina has started to liquefy.

Out of curiosity, you decide to open the zip lock bag just to see what that would smell like. THAT! That is the smell from my armpit today!!! Literally, I wanted to throw up. I smelled my armpit several times just to be certain I wasn't making it up. I swear to GOD that I wanted to throw up!

But, what was I to do? Go home, and eat cereal? Hells no!

So, I went into Publix, kept my arms firmly by my sides, and tried to stay 10ft or more from people. Certainly, I did my best to avoid children, because I didn't want to hear any "children say the darnedest things" comments.

I sure as hell hope this is a one-time, maybe something I ate, occurrence. Because if this shit continues, I'm gonna have to go see a fucking specialist! And what do you say to your brand new PCP? "Uhm, doc, I need a referral (not sure to what kind of specialist, so I'll be leaning on your expertise there), but when I exercise, uhm, my armpits smell like rancid vaginas."

Signatures

Okay, here's something I don't understand.It just doesn't make sense to me.

We've all sent or received e-mails with a signature. My e-mail signature is a quote from a book that I read in seminary. My favorite signature was a Howard Thurman quote from a fellow seminarian, "Don't ask what the world needs, rather ask what makes you feel more alive and do that. Because, that's what the world needs, more people who are fully alive."

A close second, also from a fellow seminarian lifts up the words of Martin Luther. "It is through living, indeed through dying and being damned that one becomes a theologian, not through understanding, reading or speculation." Here here! Forward thinking revolutionary mind who took advantage of the printing press to make theology accessible to the masses. Also, these are the words that ring true from someone who has endured the agony and suffering that comes from acting on, and hold to their convictions. It reminds me of the lives of countless community organizers, or other revolutionaries that I know whose unwavering commitment to the possibility that the world can and will be better has cost them dearly, yet they have not folded.

Not everyone's signature is evocative though. Some are preachy, without being insightful. Some are confusing, and make you wonder why the person put them there, and perhaps even what you don't know about this person that is hinted toward with their signature quote. Most, however, are utterly forgettable.

I suppose that everyone assumes that the readers of their e-mail will have the same visceral response to these words that they had themselves, and are "evangelizing" in some way; either you will learn something, laugh about something, change your position on something, or get fighting mad about something. I don't know if most folks shoot for inspiring, or if most folks that I come across shoot for inspiring, or if "inspiring" signature quotes are what most catch my attention, but it seems like an e-mail signature quote is the least effective means of inspiring someone. Well, they don't inspire me.

Wanna know what does inspire me? YouTube videos!! Especially if they're placed on my Facebook Funwall. Whoo!!




But, none of that is what I'm talking about here. Email signatures, not signature quotes.

I just got an e-mail from Kathy Bates. "Kathy Bates" is what shows up in my inbox. When she calls me, she says, "Hello, this is Kathy." But, her e-mail signature says, "Rev. Kathryn F. (Kathy) Bates".

Now, initially that is completely unremarkable. So, why even remark? But wait!

If everyone who knows her professionally knows her as Kathy, her e-mail is set up as "Kathy", she introduces and self-references as "Kathy," why do we need the formal name in her signature with the nickname parenthetical reminder that she goes by the diminutive? Why not just write, "Rev. Kathy"??? If your name is Angelasuan, but you go by Angie in all of your relationships, then why not just write Angie in your signature? It's not a legal document. You're signing a electronic letter. That's it.

In fact, what I often see is these folks signing their e-mails with their name, only to be followed by the formal signature.

What the hell is that, huh? Here's what it looks like:

"Thanks,
Dick

Richard D. (Dick) Richardson
Title or agency or contact info or whatever"

This makes absolutely NO sense to me. None!

So, if you're one of these Dicks, can you help me understand why you do this? I really don't get it. If you're a Dick, then just be a Dick. Why do you want me to call you Dick, but remember that you're Richard, but parenthetically you go by Dick?

Silliness.

Badges? We Don't Need No Stinkin' Badges!

So, I made it back in to the gym to get some exercise today. But, first things first. I lost my badge. I've had it for all these months, and then with 6 weeks left to go I loose my badge? Fuck!!!

Now, really, it's no big deal, but I have to pay to have it replaced. And, since so many people have lost their badges they have decided to make payment "punitive" rather than cost- effective. What the hell fuck kinda shit is that? Who decides that they'll be a little more fast and loose with their work-badge because, "Hey, it only costs $11 to replace it. Maybe it would make a good toy for the cat."

No! No one does that. But now, with six weeks left to go, I have to be penalized, with my new badge. The amount of money, so isn't the issue. It's the principle of the matter. I mean, you want me to work, don't you? Okay then, what's up with these childish games? Joyce, can I please just have a replacement badge? I'll even foot the replacement cost. And, if it's more than $11, then tell me that you've contracted with a new fair-trade vendor who ensures that all of their employees are paid a livable wage, and they use eco-friendly production processes which are 100% sustainable, and cotton candy comes out of the smokestacks at their factories. Something!

I'll pay it, I don't mind paying it, but don't tell me that you're punishing me. Don't do that shit.

I Like to Ride My Bicycle

I like to ride my bike. I love it, love it, love it!! It feels great to build up fatigue in your quads, and then 15 minutes later notice that you're going stronger and faster than ever. The wind is whipping in and around your ear-canal so fast that it sounds like you're in a wind tunnel. You have to turn your ipod up to max, because you're moving so fast that the wind is drowning out the music.

I love to just get up at 7am when the weather is still crisp and ride for 20 miles, and then come home, shower, and still have the WHOLE day ahead of you. some folks still aren't even out of bed yet.

I love it, but I don't get to do it as often as I would like. I took about two months off from exercise. Not planned, not on purpose, fatigue just whooped my ass anytime I even considered anything requiring physical exertion.

"A run? Howbout you run your ass downstairs and handle that laundry that's waiting to be washed? Howbout you do that?"

"Daymn fatigue. It's like that?"

So, two months of nothing, maybe longer. I want to say that I could see my muscle-tone liquefy before my eyes. Mostly though, I think it gelatinized. (I wonder if my ass got bigger?!?!?!?)

So, the other day I got up with a little spring in my step and drove up to the bike trail. Okay, this could go in a couple of different directions, let's see how I want to play it.

Okay, remember the last post about going to the gym at work and running like the wind for the last half mile? Well, I hurt myself. A pull or a strain, or a something that hurts, in the arch of my foot. I've been walking around like fucking Quasimodo for a week, because I hurt my foot. So, fiending for exercise, but knowing that it was a bad idea to run: Eureeka! A bike ride!! (at 7am-ish, which means 10:30.)

So, I drive out, ride 15 miles, and I feel guh-reat!! I'm riding like the fucking wind! And, at about 7 miles I realize that my foot doesn't hurt. What does that mean? You got it! Let's cut this ride short and bring it back in for a quick 1-miler!!

Let me tell you something for those of you who don't actually know me: To be so fucking smart, I can be so fucking dumb! Like, "where you born premature or something?" dumb! So, me and my fully developed faculties sped back to my car, threw the bike in the back, grabbed a pair of shoes and took of for a 1-mile run!

I felt pretty good, for about half a mile. I guess when you've got adrenaline powering your decision-making, it takes a while for body to bypass and reroute messages to your brain. I ran 1/2 mile out. I hobble-walked 1/2 mile back. That was about 3 weeks ago. I'm still wearing the special shoes I had to buy so that my feet wouldn't hurt. And to be clear, they don't match everything. -sigh-

So, these many weeks out, I have some shout outs to other folks from the trail that day.


Lady on the bike with your husband, riding old beaters, and using crappy equipment who clearly are not bike enthusiasts, but passed me while I thought I was riding like the wind: Fuck you!!


Group of riders with your matching outfits: Uhm- you're not Lance Armstrong! You don't even work for the post office. Why are you all wearing matching USPS jerseys and shorts??? You look fucking ridiculous!! (I kinda want one too.)

[Italics indicate my adolescent sarcastic tone that I perfected by 8th grade.]

Lady running in the yellow Nike Frees: Yeah you, bitch! You!! What the fuck is your problem?!? Honestly, when you see someone on a bike trying to pass you, what's with the speeding up and keeping up with them? Inappropriate!!!

Protocol?

Ok- so, I went to the gym today at work. Got my little workout on. Arms, legs, quads, traps, (I didn't necessarily work these muscle groups, but it feels like if I go to the gym I should be able to shout out some large muscle (glutes!), so that.)

I had a good little workout, and went in to hit the showers. Now, what was striking about the locker room is that it was full of the same 6 women who were in there when I first showed up to drop off my bag. 30 minutes later, all of them are still in the locker room. How long does it take to put on clothes and brush your hair?

Okay, so post-workout, at the gym, at work. What's the getting undressed protocol again? Now, at a regular gym, I would just strip down and leave my clothes on the bench near my stall in the shower room. No bfd. Or, if it's not set up that way, I would strip down in the locker room, and then wrap a towel around me as I walked to the shower. Well, in our locker room, the lockers and bench are in the same room directly across from the shower.

Quandary. Now, my inclination is to just strip down, right? I mean, I'm about to hit the shower. But, I work with these people. I don't want to be: "Psst! *That's* the woman I was telling you about!"

"The one who walks around naked in the locker room?!?"

"YES!!!!"

I don't want to be her. Anyone who's ever been in the locker room as an adult in the gym know that there is always some woman who feels just a little bit too comfortable with her naked body, and wants to stand there talking to you with her titties flopping around. (Inapproporiate!)

So, I don't want to be anything approaching that at work. But, I also don't want to be the prudish woman who walks directly into the shower from her workout and brings sideways glances because she undresses in the shower.

"She didn't even take off her running shoes?"

"Nope. She showered in them."

So, after I got out of the shower, there was my locker room buddy from last time sitting on the bench. (Waiting for me to get out of the shower? There are two other showers, but I guess she like the one I'm in and is willing to wait.) I decided to watch her to figure out what she does. What's protocol here.

Well, she went into a bathroom stall, and undressed in there, and came out in a towel. Somehow, I think she's doing it wrong too. That doesn't make much sense to me either.

Anyway, as I sat there getting dressed, I something out of of the corner of my eye caught my attention. When I turn to look, I realize that I can see her through the glass door of the shower.

Yup.

It's not clear glass, it's either opaque, or textured glass that's suppose to refract light at so many different angles that you can't really see much behind it.

Whatever the fuck it's suppose to be, I can tell you what color her pubes are, and they don't match the hair on her head.

I saw something move, I turned, and I saw her body on the other side of the glass. .07 seconds? (dark brown, like chestnuts)

I'm not sure why, not entirely, but I feel dirty on the inside.