These feet were made for walking... to restaurants

I went ice skating last week.

I think I was inspired by the Olympics and the fact that I live in a rather Winter-friendly town. So, I figured I should get my ass out into nature and get a little exercise at the same time.

Um, ice skating sucks. Did anyone else know that?

First of all, the shoes are ugly. I know the point of skating is not to be fashionable (just tell that to the male Olympic figures skaters) but all the skates were the color of bean curd.

Also, those things are not comfortable at all. I tightened them as much as I could but my arches were screaming.

On another note, did you know that there are three main groups attracted to ice skating? Allow me to drop a knowledge bomb on you.

• Children ages 5-9
• Young couples
• Teenagers

The little kids bother me the least, but I am terrified of skating over their tiny little fingers when they fall down and just lay there for half an hour.

The couples are dangerous. Because they all hold hands and refuse to let go, you're much more apt to get clothes-lined by love.

The teenagers are the worst. I mean, I hate this demographic to begin with but put them in a small, confined area and on a slippery surface and you're asking for disaster. All they do is push each other down, run into the wall and face plant right in front of you to show their friends how cool they are.

I didn't last long.

I went with a friend and her boyfriend. We left after 20 min.

But then we went to lunch and ate fried food. So, that part of ice skating was great!

Perhaps I'm the only one that feels this way about ice skating. Is there any other activity or popular outing everyone seems to enjoy but you hate?

Tell me what you loathe. I promise to validate you.

I'm not weird, I'm quirky

I count when I pee.

You read me.

I've done this ever since I was little, and I still do it.

I don't know why I started and I couldn't tell you why I haven't stopped but it never fails that when the cheeks hit the seat, the inner clock starts ticking.

Wait. I take that back. I do know why I started counting my pee.

For some reason, it was always fascinating to me that when I held it for a while, I could go for record breaking times.

And, like any good nutbar, I would tell anyone who would listen of my latest high.

And I got cocky about that shit, too.

I remember being in the car with my parents and feeling as though the Coke I had hours before was filling my kidneys and backing up into my eyeballs, but being so excited because I thought I could go for more than sixty seconds once my ass met porcelain.

When we got home, I ran inside and started the timer.

When I came out, I looked at my parents and my boyfriend at the time and announced with a great deal of pride, "One minute and seventeen seconds."

I was probably 18 years old.

18 and awesome.

This came to mind because last night, I woke up with a fierce need for the loo.

Half asleep, one eye open and my pajama pants on sideways (don't ask me how I do this, but it happens every night), I peed for 29 seconds.

I remember waking up this morning and thinking to myself, "I peed for 29 seconds last night."

Who does that?

I do that.

So, the next time you take pause to let nature do her thing, think of me.

Then count your pee.

Then laugh.

Then explain to your partner/co-worker/roommate/gynecologist what it was about the toilet that made you giggle.

It'll be a fun conversation, I promise.

VD- Valentine's Day or Venereal Disease?

My Valentine's Day weekend sucked rabid camel bits.

I've never had one quite this foul, and I think it's because I don't have any single, female friends.

All of my girlfriends here are in serious, long-term relationships. And while they don't necessarily shove it in my face (all the time), they were also unavailable the whole weekend.

So, because the weather blows monkey chunks and my friends are all out of town, cavorting with their significant others, I pretty much got to stay at home all weekend and sulk like a giant wiener.




I think it really took me by surprise because I was feeling so positive and optimistic about the whole thing. I mean, I don't mind if other people celebrate it. I really don't. I was just going to do something else... except, then I couldn't. Or didn't.

I'm only confessing this because I think I often present with an assertive "fuck you" attitude toward things like this as though it doesn't affect me, but it gets to me too, sometimes.

Moping can be expensive, though. I mean, in order to feel better, I had to buy myself dinner a couple times and, of course, some jewelry.

Good thing I'm a cheap date.

It's about to get graphic

I would like to pose a question to my few but fantastic readers, as well as the universe in general.

What is up with men and tongue?

(I'm making this gender specific because I feel like it IS gender specific.)

Look familiar?

Rarely do you hear about women complaining because her partner isn't trying hard enough to lick her tonsils.

Nope. It's generally the other way around.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love making out like a high schooler and I'm a champion kisser. Seriously, I'm good. Just saying.

However, I have never been kissing someone and thinking to myself, "Hmm. This is great but I wish he would just put his entire tongue in my mouth. That would make it perfect!" Not once.

And what's the deal with, what I like to call, Fancy Tongue?

This is when a guy has moves. Tongue moves.

Perhaps he is licking your teeth, darting in and out or shifting from side to side like an Olympic snowboarder.

Mind you, I don't want to speak for all women. It's possible that some find this to be creative and much more interesting than the norm.

Me? I'm a sucker for tradition.

The moves, however, are so odd to me. It makes me want to pull back, slap him across the face and say, "Start over. And do it good this time."

Grammar be damned.

But therein lies the pickle.

You can't say anything. Or at least I can't.

More than anything, I want to stop someone from doing calisthenics in my mouth and say, "If you took the tongue from a 9 to a 3, you would be awesome." Most people don't respond well to that, though. I know I wouldn't.

And there's all this bullshit in Cosmo and Glamour about correcting a bad kisser. One piece of advice is to kiss the way you want to be kissed.

Okay, well if men got that concept, we wouldn't be having this problem in the first place.

Another piece of advice is to say, "That's great, but let me show you how I like to be kissed," in a super sexy, come hither voice.

Umm... I can't do that. I'm not sexy. And if I tried, I'd start laughing, the guy would be offended and the date would be over anyway. Try harder, Cosmo.

Is this just me? And is this something that men seem more enamored with in their 20s? Or is it a lifelong commitment to tasting my larynx?

The next time this happens, someone might get punched in the throat.

Bad blogger pees 20 times a day

I apologize for my tardiness.

I've been a bad blogger and even worse blog reader lately.

Normally, it's what I do first thing in the morning as I have my coffee and get ready for the day.

Lately, however, I have been wicked nauseated in the mornings and the computer screen does little to help that.

Luckily, with a little help from WebMD, I can now diagnose myself with a plethora of diseases!

So, because my symptoms are:

• Nausea
• Excessive hunger
• Weight gain (I love that my giant ass is now a symptom)
  
• Fatigue
• Excessive thirst
• Lotta, lotta peeing

I learned that I could possibly have:

• Hypoglycemia
  
• Type 1 Diabetes
• A giant tumor on my liver
• A raging case of the Mondays

On another note, Valentine's Day is upon us. I know I'm going to come off as the bitter single girl, but I'll come out and say it. I'm not a fan.

You know what other made up excuse for a holiday I can't stand?

Have you ever heard of Sweetest Day? Neither had I.

I had a roommate in college that used to try and celebrate this. Mostly, it made the rest of us want to slap her in the face and spit in her mouth.

She works at Disney World now.

You can't make this shit up.

I may vomit

I watched Julie and Julia tonight.

I watched it with a wheel of brie, a jar of fig jam and a box of crackers.

I am convinced that this is the correct way to watch this movie.

I'm also convinced that I may toss my cookies within the next half hour.

In short, I love cheese, I love Meryl Streep and I might blow chunks.

My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard...

This is how I dance when I think no one is looking.

Doughnut included.

This one's for the ladies

Sometimes by the end of the day, I'll feel like a giant barf bag.

Today just happens to be one of those days.

My first instinct is to go over what I ate during the course of the day. This involves having a little chat with myself, and it goes a little something like this:

Good grief, Grilled Cheese, what did you eat today?

It wasn't that much, calm down.

You can't be serious. It feels awful in here.

Back off. I ate super healthy today.

Really? Okay, list it off.

Fine. Today, I had a banana, applesauce, oatmeal, two grilled cheese sandwiches, yogurt, a giant salad, a pop-tart, a chocolate peanut butter milkshake, finished a bag of Alexia aged cheddar waffle fries crunchy snacks, half a bag of tomato, romano and olive oil Soy Crisps and more applesauce. Oh. That's a little more than I thought.

What do you have to say for yourself?

PMS?

Touche.


**This post was inspired by a lovely poem by Bethany.

Didn't you see Ratatouille?

I recently went on a semi-blind date.

A former co-worker of mine decided she found a man (who will be referred to as Dirk) I would just love.

I'm normally kind of skeptical of these sort of statements, but in an attempt to be open-minded and proactive, I acquiesced.

I was told we had endless things in common, like our mutual love of travel, theater and the arts in general.

What I was not told was that he is at least eight years older than me, has children and at the time, had only been divorced about 4 months.

Kids are not necessarily a deal-breaker, and neither is the age difference. The super recent divorce, however, on top of the rest was a little more than I was prepared to handle.

I digress.

The lunch itself was fine, though not sparkling with chemistry. In fact, I was thinking that I wouldn't even get a good story out of it.

Clearly, I thought too soon.

Near the end, he told me how he used to work in an animal testing lab as a gopher. I was moderately horrified by this and I'm pretty sure my reaction was all over my face.

*As a side note, I am a bleeding heart animal lover. Whenever I watch Dances With Wolves, I get a lot more upset about the soldiers trying to shoot the wolf than I do about all the people who get killed.

Undeterred by my response, he went on to relay that there was a switch in the lab that he never used and therefore never understood its use.

So, one day he asked one of the scientists. The scientist laughed and said, "You don't work on Tuesdays, do you?" Dirk told the scientist he didn't.

Mad Scientist Guy told Dirk to come in on Tuesday and he would see how the switch came into play.

Next Tuesday, Dirk came into the lab and Mad Scientist Guy flipped the mystical switch.

According to Dirk, a mini-guillotine came out of the ceiling and was lowered on to one of the tables.

I swear, I am not making this up.

This particular lab tests the effects of drugs and alcohol on rats. Many of their tests involve the brain. How do you get access to the tiny rat brain after it's been all scrambled up on meth?

That's right. Just pop that sucker off.

My mouth was hanging open and I just stared at him, waiting for him to say something redeeming like, "And once I learned that, I quit my job and started working at the ASPCA to fight this injustice!"

No such luck.

Instead, he laughed at the absolute disgust plastered on my face and went on like it never happened.

In his defense, he was not aware of my animal affection...

...but why in the Hell would you tell that story on a date?



Note to all single, heterosexual men: For most women, rat beheadings are, in fact, deal-breakers.