Tag Archives: funny

Sweat

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It’s summer. This should come as no surprise to anyone. After all, it’s July, and while that may mean chilly temperatures for our friends in New Zealand, here in Southeastern America it means heat.

Heavy, sticky, disgusting heat.

Heat that seeps through the drywall. Heat that no car AC can hope to defeat. Heat that filters in through unshuttered windows and hovers above leather seats and steering wheels.

The South is humid. Unlike the West, where the air may be hot but remains breathable, the perpetual 50% humidity of the South turns air of any temperature into barely inhalable soup. Puddles from occasional rainstorms stay for days, and sweat has nowhere to go.

Summer in the South means you never. Stop. Sweating.

Okay, maybe normal people do. I don’t.

Something happened to me when I started my 20s. Something awful. I used to be one of the few teenagers that never, ever got a pimple, glistened vaguely during workouts, and smelled like a flower garden 88% of the time. But my 20s hit and boom, acne and buckets and buckets of inexplicable sweat.

I suspect I have some rare breed of adrenal issue that I might just have inherited from my father. We both have issues with heat. My father and I both start feeling uncomforatbly warm at around 70 degrees (that’s 21 degrees for my friends in New Zealand). We start dripping sweat at 75. Eighty and we’re swimming in our own natural coolant. Ninety and we’re drooling over travel brochures on northern Russia.

I seem to have an added complication to my sweat issue. I sweat when in situations where I have to socialize with strangers or even acquaintences. I sweat at parties. I sweat when I get in front of people to speak, sing, or otherwise perform. I sweat if I sit still too long. I sweat when I stand too long. I sweat if I have to wait in line anywhere, especially government offices. If you see me in any social context where I am thinking of the next thing I have to say, you’ll probably see me with my hands tucked under my arms, not because I am nervous or emtionally gaurded but because I’m trying to gauge just how large the sweatstains under my arms are growing and at what rate and what on earth can I do to hide them.

And that’s just in the fall and winter. In the summer the nightmare gets about 1000x worse.

My poor long-suffering spouse spends his July evenings in flannel pajamas burrowed into a pile of quilts while I sprawl out in shorts and a tank top next to our window AC unit which is allegedly blasting 60 degree air while my sweat glands remain unconvinced. (That’s 15 degrees for our friends in New Zealand.)

And yes, I know what you’re thinking. “Just buy some antiperspirent deoderant. Problem solved.” Yes, sure, but only if they manage to put it in a spray bottle and in large enough quantities to coat my whole body in it every day from May to November.

Or, as an alternative, I could just relocate to a different climate for the summer months. Somewhere like New Zealand.

 

 

 

I Found This Humorous

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Yes. Every day for the past nine months, actually. Looking at pictures of me a year ago is rather depressing. Because I looked, you know, not zombie-like last year.

Sleep has been a rare commodity for the last four years, normally because something like this happens every single night:

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The following scene tends to happen multiple times during the day:

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And then people feel like they need to walk on eggshells whenever they’re around me. Really, they don’t. I’m doing better than others…

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Honestly, just about anything that’s the matter in my life on any given day could be fixed by someone coming along and saying,

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Well, actually, sleep. Sleep would do the trick even better. But when people tell me I should just go to bed early, I tell them that the following will happen:

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…so why even bother?

Today, I’m not going to even try being coherent. It won’t work. I would be embarrassed to tell you how many times I’ve had to backspace writing this one meager little post. Today I just went to my board of funny stuff on Pinterest, found the things that seemed to apply to today (and every other day this week) and strung them into a story.

Why? Because…

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…and hopefully you did, too.

Random Ramblings (That’s All, Folks)

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Because my brain is fried, I will be writing about whatever pops into my head over the next fifteen minutes or so. Maybe something I write will end up being somewhat amusing.

  1. There is a novelization of the musical West Side Story at the head of my bed. I have been reading a paragraph at a time over the past several days. Even though that musical happens to be one of my favorites, the presence of this book on my shelf reminds me of one of the many reasons I boycott Valentine’s Day. That is a story for another day.
  2. My refrigerator doubles as a nightstand. Atop this nightstand, among a few other random items, there is a hand mirror and a vase holding a single red rose. Where either of those items came from is immaterial. The rose is beginning to look droopy, and with the long-handled mirror sitting beside it, I can’t help but feel if that rose’s last petal falls before my twenty-first birthday, I’ll be stuck as myself for the rest of my life. Or something like that.
  3. There are still remnants of shininess on my fingernails from a manicure I got in preparation for my friend’s wedding last month. They weren’t kidding when they told me it would last forever.
  4. It is surprisingly easy to confuse “The Ride of the Valkyries” with “The Darth Vader Theme” from Star Wars, especially if you’re trying to take a nap on a couch backstage and your brain stopped functioning properly about two hours beforehand.
  5. Rather than waiting until March to begin the usual what-I’m-going-to-do-the-moment-I-get-home-for-summer-vacation fantasizing, I started it today. There are plans of listening to movie soundtracks and songs by the group Secret Garden blasted very loudly on the family room speakers while I lie on the couch in a state of utter bliss. It will be glorious.

Thank you for this little indulgence. Depending on how this semester continues, there may be more of such isolated random thoughts as we inch our way closer and closer to May.

This Is the Story of How I Got Fat

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Once upon a time, my family discovered the joys of organic food. Through careful research we found that organic food lacked preservatives and antibiotics that contribute to things like chronic weight gain, unsheddable pounds and the inability to process antibiotics when one actually needs them. As a result, we became a 90% organic-eating family. I exercised regularly, and with the help of Weight Watchers, I lost 20 pounds and reached my ideal weight of 145. Life was good.

Then, college happened.

There is food everywhere. Non-organic food. Preservative-laden food. Fried food. Sugary food. What’s worse, readily available food. Even if you gauge yourself at dinner, there will be someone in the dorm who shoves a slice of pie under your nose and tells you to eat it. Maintaining one’s healthy weight is a struggle. Losing weight is an impossibility, unless you manage not to eat at all.

This is especially a problem on Fridays, where there is an added layer of mentality that says, “It’s Friday. You deserve it.”

First world problems, I know. Regardless, I’m going to go running tomorrow instead of sleeping in. My waistline will thank me.  

Have Some Funny Stuff

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It’s today. Have a laugh. And while you’re at it, hug someone you love and tell that person he or she is a magnificent human being that you’re blessed to know. Smile. Eat some chocolate (provided you aren’t allergic). Read a poem out loud, even if it’s just a limerick or advertising gimmick. Compliment a total stranger on their shoes. Yell because you can. Skip–just a step. Live. Live today. Live in the knowledge that somebody, somewhere, loves you.

Can you tell I’m tired? I’m sorry…

 

Hugs

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There’s a lot of hugging involved in the Olympics. People hug right and left. Volleyball teams do group hugs after every point scored, whether they scored the point or not. Both men’s and women’s teams. It makes sense: a lot of emotion gets rolled into the Olympic games. A lot of emotions, a lot of hugs. The rowers hug. The gymnasts hug. All kinds of hugs: over-the-shoulder hugs, bear hugs, light hugs, grasp-of-death hugs…if these people keep it up, hugging will become the next official Olympic sport.

How would you like to be able to say you were an Olympic hugging champion?

Hugs should be simpler than they are. All that’s involved in a hug is your arms going around someone else’s torso while that someone does the same to you. But hugs are complicated, apparently, because it’s dashed difficult to give a hug without it ending up awkward.

If you happened to grow up in an environment that wasn’t as touchy-feely as most of the world (like I did), you may find hugging particularly difficult. You may be a victim of the all-to-common face smashing faux pas. You go to hug someone, can’t figure out which direction the other person’s face is going, overcompensate, and end up practically locking lips with the person you honestly were just trying to hug.

Or the hand placement faux pas. This tends to happen when hugging someone of the opposite gender with whom you have a totally platonic relationship. In opposite gender hugs, the typical procedure is to allow one hand to go up over the shoulder and one down under the other person’s arm. Both hugger and huggee try to follow the standard of one arm up, one arm down. The difficulty occurs when both huggers try to put the same hands up and the same hands down, resulting in an awkward unintentional high-five and a restart. Or worse, you end up with the hugger having both hands up and the huggee with both hands down, which for whatever reason is considered uncomfortably intimate. Still trying to figure that one out.

Maybe we could dissolve the tension of an awkward hug by blurting out scores, like hugging really is an Olympic event. You know, just kind of break away from the hug-in-progress and blurt out “That was an 8. You need to work on your facial placement.”

Or maybe that would only make things worse…

This is why I stay at home and write and don’t go to parties.

Why I Do Not Like Dogs

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This is something I normally try to be hush-hush about, simply because I know it is such a controversial subject.  I’ve seen people get more worked up about this subject than they have about Democrat vs. Republican. And I know I may lose readers by saying this, but I really just don’t like dogs.

I get several different reactions from people when I tell them this. Sometimes I get a diatribe about how awesome dogs are and how mentally scrambled I must be not to like them. Others give me a pitying look like I just told them I have an incurable disease. Usually I get a blank stare accompanied by a little backward head-jerk that plainly says they think I’m somewhere between an axe-murderer and someone who takes candy from small children.

I think I can honestly say that I am none of those things. I strive to be an open-minded individual who accepts all of God’s creatures and shares the planet willingly with them. I have a healthy mind, and I have never stolen candy from small children and the thought of even hurting a log with an axe gives me the willies.

I just don’t like dogs.

To be fair, I have never owned a dog. Many of my relatives and friends have, however, and my experiences with them have been mostly negative. Note that I do not try to provoke dogs, nor do I encourage them to be friendly with me. But I have had my arm mauled by a dog, been chased up a tree by a dog who proceeded to gnaw my foot, have been scratched by over-eager dogs, and have read way too many articles about “friendly” house dogs who snapped at no provocation and killed the family’s toddler. I babysat a dog who took it upon himself to bark from 10:00 pm until 2:00 am without stop. My sleep was disturbed at my friend’s house by a stray dog which started barking at nothing and continued to bark at nothing for the next hour and a half. The Rambler family lawn is littered by the dung of other people’s mutts. When we first moved in to the house we live in now, the neighbor’s dog would stand in the middle of our yard and bark at us when we appeared in the windows, since apparently we had wandered into his territory. This same dog also dug through our trash, creating a royal mess that we had to clean up later. I’m fairly certain that this was done out of spite, but of course I have no way to prove that.

For these, and for many other reasons, I prefer to avoid dogs.

At this point, my dog-loving conversation partner will say, “But there are so many nice dogs.” Yes, I will acknowledge that there are some nice dogs. I can name several of whom I am particularly fond. My cousin’s dog, Reagan, for example, as well as my neighbor’s lumbering retriever, Cal. My aunt once owned a sweet-tempered schnauzer named Nick who I miss very much. Like I said, I am open-minded. I realize that not all dogs are created equal, and that there are many dogs which are exceptions to the rule. Service dogs, for example, as well as police dogs, bomb-sniffing dogs and seeing-eye dogs, are exceptional animals that the world could not do without.

But as a general rule, I just don’t like dogs. I am not malicious towards dogs, unlike those who dislike cats and use that as a justification to strap rockets to their tails. I will not go out of my way to harm a dog, and when I see one dead by the side of the road I do not rejoice but am very sad—it’s not the poor dog’s fault that its owners didn’t love it enough to keep it behind a fence.

That said, the fact remains: I do not, nor is it likely that I will ever like dogs. Think of me what you will, but I cannot be converted to Dogism.

For further information, read up on T.S. Eliot.

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Photo credit: Not Mine. I’m not that amazing as a painter.

One Does Not Simply Walk Into My Room

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Part of living in the dorms at UU involves moving almost the entire content of you room at home to your dorm room—which, incidentally, you share with three other people. And even if you begin the year with minimal amounts of stuff, more stuff accumulates, and what stuff you have spreads out into disorganized heaps so that by the time the semester’s over, you have no clue what you have and packing and unpacking it becomes a royal nightmare.

Needless to say, my room currently looks like WW3 hit.

Part of the reason it look so awful is that I’ve been trying to clean it. Before, everything was arranged into suitcases and boxes on one side of the room. Now, junk’s everywhere. I feel like I stepped into an episode of “Hoarders.”

I hate my room right now. It used to be the place I went to chill out, but now…I just close the door and back away slowly.

The way I clean doesn’t seem productive in the initial stages. My rule is that for there to be order, there must first be chaos. The room will explode during a purge—stuff’s everywhere, thrown in piles, heaps of donations, heaps of trash, heaps of stuff that doesn’t even belong in my room, trash bags, my boombox blaring something peppy. There is a method to my madness—if I can see clearly what needs to go where, I get things sorted more easily. So everything needs to be out in the open, thrown around, discarded or kept. I try not to leave myself time to linger over something worthless that the pack rat within me wants to keep.

It drives me and everyone else in the house absolutely crazy. But it works. Once the process is over, I look like I have a brand new room.

To my credit, I’ve always had one of the tidier rooms among my circle of friends. I remember being smaller and going over to a friend’s house. It seemed that no matter which friend it was, their bedroom floor would be so littered with toys and junk that I couldn’t walk anywhere. One of my friends even purposefully left straight pins on the floor in her room—in her mind, that was the rightful and obvious place to keep pointy needles, right where her (or her unsuspecting guests’) feet could find them easily.

I can learn from a negative example. As a result, my floors have always been kept empty of stuff.

It’s the closets that are a little mysterious.

My goal is to get the room clean by the end of the week. At least mostly clean. Trust me, under normal circumstances, my room is beautiful But right now…

I’d rather simply walk into Mordor.

The Word You’re Looking For is “Ow”

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Most normal people make New Year’s resolutions. A new year, a new diet, a new weight loss plan, a new exercise routine, a new wardrobe, etc., etc. Noble ambitions always begin at the beginning of the year. For normal people.

But most normal people aren’t students.

Any resolution we have, it gets taken care of during the summer. We don’t have time otherwise. School eats everything.

I always begin the year with noble ambitions of losing weight, working on The Book, committing to a journal, and a whole host of other things. But then homework happens. And nothing else gets done.

Therefore, I and a lot of other full-time students that I know have many goals for the summer. One of mine—as it goes with every summer—is to lose weight and get back in shape. I don’t look too bad right now, but I want to feel healthy again.

So I’m guzzling a gallon of water a day. I’m back to salads and protein shakes. An hour of running and weight machines four days a week. Sit-ups, stretches, curls, presses, lifts, you name it.

And after two days of this, I’m face-to-face with the grisly fact that I am horribly, horribly out of shape.

Everything aches. Everything. Shoulders. Stomach. Back. Thighs. Calves. Pectorals. Every. Blessed. Thing.

But I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that after three months of hard work and personal discipline, I can be back on track. Lean, mean, and ready to face the school year.

So I can repeat the cycle once again.

Pass the almonds.  

Landmarks

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In a dorm, everything looks the same. Same doors. Same cabinets. Same beds. Same, same, same. This is an advantage—no one bullies each other over who has the better dorm room, and, as we are all female, we can usually think of some way to customize where we live. This can mean door signs, wreaths, dry erase boards with quirky messages, or doormats.

We have a doormat for our room. It is divided in half lengthwise. On one half is the word “studying.” The other, “partying.” The idea is to turn the rug around based on whatever is happening in that room at any given time. It was what distinguished our otherwise boring door from the fifty or so others on our hall. My roommates tell me that they knew which door was ours by seeing that rug on the floor. It was our landmark.

Along came the semi-annual cleaning spree. The rug got rolled up and put into my closet. It hasn’t been out since.

Now we all have trouble finding our own room. We have to find our neighbor’s fish-shaped rug and go down a door.

The jury’s still out on how pitiful that makes us.

 

22 Years Young

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Friday nights bring out the best in everyone. Tonight I spent two hours sitting on the grass with about 500 college students, watching Toy Story.

What was fun was to listen to people quoting the lines along with the dialogue. They started swaying and waving their phones in the air during a slower song. They clapped along with “You’ve Got a Friend in Me.” They laughed at all the funny parts…and some of the unfunny parts. They cheered when Sid got his comeuppance. I saw someone with a Woody doll.

Moral of the story: you are never too grown up to still be a kid.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Dorm

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As a student who lives half in, half out of the dorms, I find myself carrying odder things than just my plus-sized backpack across campus. My mother is a professor at Undisclosed University, so she often delivers things to campus that I forgot or need or both. She works in the main lecture building…all the way across campus from where I live.

So I’ve found myself wandering across campus with everything from pillows to laundry hampers to grocery bags. I try not to make eye contact who stare at my suspiciously, like I’m some well-dressed hobo who doesn’t belong on the walk between Point A and Point B (or Point Z, considering the length of the walk).

Today I got groceries and an early birthday present. My mother brought me a carton of half and half, since I prefer a cup of Josephine over a cup of plain ol’ Joe. She also brought me flat sandals, much to my delight. I hugged my Mum, told her thank you, and, having no bag, hung the sandals on my fingers and carried the half and half in my free hand. I went whistling down the sidewalk, thinking nothing of it.

Until I realized how comical I must look. Sandals dangling from my fingertips, price tags flapping in the breeze, holding a carton of half and half as if it were a latte. I ran into a former roommate on the sidewalk. She glanced at my hands and gave me that “You’re pulling a Miss Rambler again” look. I looked back and apologetically said—

“I have a good explanation for this. Really I do. Honest.”