Monday, August 26, 2013

Meezer Monday: I'm OK, You're Sort of OK


Every day last week I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I'm beginning to think that maybe it's just easier to sleep that way with the apparently ginormous stick that's up my @ss. It hasn't been an easy summer and there are several contributing factors, but it's as if the switch has been flipped from "Angry? Cry and hate yourself!" to "Angry? Take the more mature route and make faces at people on the street." Srsly. It's like there's this ugly, small-hearted crone inside me that shouts out, "What the eff are you looking at?" 

I'm ashamed to say that's no lie. I was running past the garage in my apartment complex the other day when some random attendant inside called out, "Good morning!" He got rewarded with an expletive that burbled out like I was on an audition for the head-spinning scene in whatever that movie is. (Maybe that's a bad example--I didn't know the guy, I wasn't looking in his direction, and I was about 50 feet away from him. Call me a grinch, but I feel that he should MHOB. You think he says "good morning" to the guys running by?)

You see what I mean about that ginormous stick?! Why should I care if some Howdy Doody says "good morning?" I wish people were nicer to each other! He may have been a lug-headed busy body, but at least he didn't slam the door in my face or look past me as if I were invisible, like half the people in New York.

But the worst part of leaking and saying rotten stuff to random strangers?! It makes you feel really bad. And I really believe there's no excuse for being rude to anyone--in any situation. You always have the option of walking away and saying nothing (unless, of course, you have swallowed a small-hearted crone who shouts out "F*ck" like I have). So here I have been feeling like such an amateur human being, and guess who doesn't seem to mind? Who loves me even when I'm a jerk, when I don't wanna love myself?

Lorenzo.

The behaviorists would say it's not love, of course. But I'm not sure they've done much research in this one particular stinky arena, so heck, I'm gonna anthropomorphize. And overshare a little bit, too.

This summer I've been training for a marathon, so my weekends have been taken up with what is known as the long, slow run. But don't let that Robert Frost-y name fool you--on occasion they've been miserable, sweat-filled 4-hour affairs that  revolve around public bathrooms and easy access to Gatorade.

But it never fails. He always does it. When I come staggering in to the apartment, red-faced and dripping with sweat, there's Lorenzo, waking up from his nap and ready to join me for stretching on the rug. I remember the day he started doing it. He was watching me very intently as I used the foam roller, and then HE started rolling, tentatively at first, on his back. It was like, OMG, this cat's a freakin' genius.

As we stretch out, at some point he wanders over and sticks his nose in my underarm, nips me and then hits the floor, rolling on his back like he's been sniffing catnip. He doesn't care I had to take a 5-minute break at Mile 10. He doesn't care that half the city passed me (those freaking dads in running strollers, for gawd's sake!). Not only does he accept me for smelling bad, he revels in it. It's equal parts embarrassing and endearing, but honestly, I can't think of a better example of someone accepting you for who you are, even when you can't accept who you are. And trust me, its not nearly as gross as the story an ad rep once told me about the dog who was obsessed with her underwear drawer.

P.S. The next time you encounter a nasty human being who asks you "What the eff are you looking at?," know it's nothing personal. He or she is probably stressed out and feeling vulnerable.


Not my favorite by these guys, but it sho nuff gets the point across:




The last and only time I listened to this song was during my senior year in college, fall semester. I was in Greece, and they played this every week at a club called Rebound. Pretty sure the patrons thought we were stupid Americans.

Sunday, August 4, 2013

Let It Brie


Dear Camembert,

How I miss your smiling face. Not only were you a stinky liar---you only weighed 7 ounces while your nutrition label claimed to serve 35!!--but when I saw you on sale for 1.99, I doubted your fatty goodness. What kind of French cheese costs $1.99?!  Creamy, yes, but not the mighty 3,500 calories you claimed to be. Did you give a sh*t? No, no whey. And until the very end you laughed, living large in a fat-free world.

There are many cheesy songs, but not many songs about cheese. This is the best I could do:



P.S. Am I the only one who thought the lyric was…"she runs around and she shouts out 'Fart!'"?!