They really aren't Cheaper By The Dozen...

For the record, Nadya Suleman is a baby-hoarding psycopath. After hearing about this ridiculous single mother with 14 children, including newborn octuplets, I really have to question the sanity of America.




What angers me the most is the fact that in the greater scheme of things, she's broke. As a fellow poor person in these great United States, I'm pretty sure the last brilliant idea I could come up with would be to have 8 babies. I don't even want one baby, and right now I'm collecting spare change just to keep my chihuahua in Kibbles 'N Bits. Surrogacy, maybe. Selling my eggs, sure. But risking my wallet and my vagina for a litter of screaming poop machines is just not my cup of tea.

So now here comes this nutjob with an infant addiction and all I can think is that my income taxes are going straight to her welfare check. I'm not working 40 hours a weeek to buy government cheese for a family of 15 whose mother had 6 fertilized eggs in vitro, a.k.a on purpose. I would be much better able to stomach this debacle if she'd said she had 14 "accidents," (or "surprises" for the the faint of heart). I would even feel much more at ease if she'd said she got drunk one night, took too much heroin, not enough birth control, and had sex with 8 guys at a party. At least then I'd get a good episode of Maury Povich out of it.

You ARE the father.
You are NOT the father!



But no. This lunatic actually admits with a straight face to paying a similarly ludicrous doctor to put 6 buns in her huge, greedy oven (2 of those buns becoming twins, or biscuits?). And twice! I'm sorry lady, but unless you're Angelina Jolie, you shouldn't have 14 children. In fact, please, give her a few.

We outlaw gay marriage, create a system that takes years just for some people to adopt children, and then we let this looney tune run around grabbing up eggs and popping out babies like we're some sort of endangered species in desperate need of breeding.

We're not.
This place is crowded enough as it is.

And please stop doing interviews, this woman needs to go straight to a mental institution (which, coincidentally is where she once worked), and not appearing on the Today Show. If Pampers, or Huggies, or Gerber, or any of those breeding goods corporations start giving her endorsements and free products, I'm running straight to the animal shelter, adopting and then mating 27 cats. I'm not quite sure what point I would be proving, but the idea seems just as rational. And much cheaper. And without the tearing. Or stretching.




I'm just hoping some good can come out of this horrific incident. Perhaps it will cause a boost in the economy by creating jobs, because let's face it, she'll have to hire an entire cheerleading team of babysitters, at least half a dozen wet nurses, and a handful of nannies. When they come of age, she should seriously consider opening a sweatshop. We all know those little hands are great at cross-stitching.

If I wasn't allergic to crying, sick desperation, dirty diapers, and the smell of baby food, I might submit an application. But until then, Ms. Suleman, you and your clan are on my virtual hitlist (meaning I loathe you from afar and you should constantly feel my eyes of judgement).

Trapped in 1988...

It's a very rude awakening to realize that you have the attention span of a six-year-old. I've come to the conclusion that I need to be constantly entertained and/or amused. I wouldn't go as far as to say that I have attention defecit disorder. I don't need to be medicated. This is all really based on my actions and purchases within the last week or two. Somehow I manage to mingle the idea of responsibility with something completely absurd. Impulsive, even. I have a need for sensory overload, like browsing the internet with the television on, the radio blaring, and trying to have a sane conversation on the phone all at the same time.




I'm all about multi-tasking and the word 'simultaneously.' It always makes your tasks seem extraordinary, no matter how ridiculous they are.

He juggled three watermelons while simultaneously whistling the score to Bonanza.

Wow. Magnificent (I so seldom get to use that word).

And so I find myself with this constant need of a backup plan in case something goes awry, and I somehow begin to experience the burden of pure focus. On one thing. Honestly, I'm not sure I am even capable of such a feat.

Last week, for example.

I went to the drug store to buy tampons and walked out with three Pez dispensers.

I went to the office supply store to buy an organizer and ended up with two Hot Wheels cars.

I took a trip to the grocery store for milk and left with a pocket-sized laser pointer.

I went to fill up my tank at the gas station and strolled out wearing a ski hat. In Florida.

I seriously need an accountant and a personal shopper to keep me under control.

The other day I went back to the drug store and bought a jumbo bag of Pez refills.

Something tells me there is reason I don't want or need to have children. It would be like giving birth to a circle of friends. After a few years we'd be sitting around the sandbox with our cherry kool-aid talking about saturday morning cartoons and play-doh.

It's still a wonder adults put up with me. Maybe I do need to be medicated.

Infatuation taking hold...

Wise people always say that life is about making and managing priorities. By wise people, I'm simply referring to those who feel the overwhelming need to intervene in your life with uninvited advice. No one ever ardently seeks these people out to ask for the key to happiness. Or success. Deep down we all know the right things to do and say in order to get what we want, it just comes down to the will and desire to do so. Prioritizing. Managers and corporate big wigs in silk ties love that term. It means giving your tasks a certain order in which to be completed, according to importance. Which is fine, as long as your punched into the time clock, swiveling around the office in your ergonomic desk chair. Working billable hours. Collecting your wages or pooling your tips.

But when people tell me I need to set priorities in my life, I feel the equivalent of being leashed in the backyard like a German Shepard. You keep running and the chain keeps yanking you back, dictating where you can and cannot go. Or as if I'm wearing one of those shock collars that shoot you with electricity whenever you pass the boundaries. Priorities are completely subjective, and as far as I'm concerned, they have been since the beginning of time.

Some people want to be homemakers. Professors. Professional athletes. Mothers. Lawyers. Lovers. Interior decorators. Some people want to lay on the white sand of a tropical island and sip Mai Tai's until their livers corrode.

It's a lot like those bible pushers that tell you to pray. Tell you that Jesus loves you and hand you pocket-sized pamphlets. Ask you if you have accepted the Lord as your savior. They talk about salvation.

I don't need to be saved.
And yet we all need to be saved.

We need to be saved from all of this white noise, speculation and societal guidelines that tell us that we should buy houses instead of backpacking through Europe. Start familes instead of seeing the world. Wear a pantsuit instead of a pair of jeans. Maybe my aspirations contradict the notion of becoming a millionaire, or becoming famous, or popping out 2.5 children and spiralling down the drain of suburbian mediocrity.

Maybe my priorities are different. Maybe I have it all wrong. But nonetheless, they are mine to choose.

One hundred years from now no one will care if you were the CEO of some long ago renamed company, or if some university named a wing after you. You're just an engraved name on a placard. No one really cares about George Washington. The green-tinted face on the crumpled bill you pull from a pocket. He's a dead president. When the lights go out, it really will not matter if I never smoked a cigarette or had a one-night stand. Took chances. Made transient memories.

I don't need a legacy. My priority is to be happy, to make others happy while I have the opportunity.

When you make another person one of your priorities, your life changes. Certain other aspects come screeching to a halt. I understand the point of view of people with career paths and big dreams. You lose focus. But maybe your priority is love. Friendship. Finding genuine people.

I'll never fault anyone for persuing their dreams or making their own reality, whatever that may be. But I can't be faulted for doing the same.

No Coloreds Allowed...

I know that seems like an extremely derogatory statement, but it isn't the sign from a restroom circa sometime during the early twentieth century. It is the theme for a white party. Obviously, this does not mean white people, it means white clothes. Unfortunately, it wasn't until about 5 hours before said party when my friends and I realized that despite our tropical location, between us we have a dire shortage of white clothes. Not only this, but we discovered that in mid-November, no one sells white clothes. Of course there is always White House Black Market, but poor people do not shop there. As I have stated before, I am a poor person. I am also a reasonably messy person, especially when mixing copious amounts of alcohol with copious amounts of dancing. Needless to say, I don't own much of anything that is white. I rushed home after work and went on a desperate needle-in-the-haystack search through my closet for anything resembling the color white. After literally digging through piles of clothes up to my elbows, I saw a gleam of fabric. And after gasping aloud with anticipation I pulled it out to realized that it belonged to a terribly wrinkled, yet perfectly white skirt. I've discussed the fact that I am allergic to folding clothes. I also do not own an iron, and have not actually ironed since I was in middle school. I've seen it done. It looks like a good time, and I can completely understand a person's desire for crisp creases and freshly pressed pants. But after discovering the magic of a 5 minute tumble in the dryer, it just seemed like an unnecessary investment. Whoever invented the iron has made a mockery of who invented the dryer. But then again, it's kind of one of those chicken before the egg or egg before the chicken arguments. At any rate, a quick tumble dry and I was ready to go. My question here, is why are there never red parties? Blue parties? Seriously, I own more neon green than white. I'm just saying. It's clothing discrimination, and I am entirely too open minded for that.



Viva blanco!

Where is your diploma?

I realized today that I am irritated by extremely trivial things.

I attended a great college. I went to New York University. I had a fabulous time partying my way through Manhattan, losing my inhibitions and my coveted accessories. On occasion, I even learned a thing or two, took a few notes, and attended a couple of lectures. My professors were all experts in the field, and dedicated most of their free time to teaching us future debutantes how to succeed.

This all sounds like the fabulous introduction to a high school reunion speech, but the fact is that I really hate telling people where I went to school. They immediately turn on that "wow" face as if I told them I re-invented the wheel. Or Velveeta.

Society dictates that you are supposed to go to a good school, get one of those "good" jobs where you earn a salary, punch a time card, and worry yourself about collating paperwork. I must apologize to the cubicle lemmings of America when I say that office work is just not for me. No matter my score on the SAT or my ambition of wearing pantsuits and carrying briefcases. Sitting at a desk for nine hours a day is just not my cup of tea, I don't care care how much you're willing to pay me.

I was walking through the parking lot to work today, and I saw a car with one of those bumper stickers in the back. It was one of those clear ones that you put in the rear window, that advertise your college or university in big bright letters. I squinted my eyes against the sun and for some odd reason I wanted to beat in that glass with a baseball bat.





New York University. Yes, that's what it said.

It seemed so pretentious and needy. Look at me, I paid over $40,000 a year for secondary education and now I'm driving a car that proclaims it. Look at me and my higher education. My purple and white. Look at me. Look!

I stood there for a few seconds and questioned the purpose. Life is all about impressing people. I think about that everytime a customer asks where I went to school and gives that cynical eyebrow raise. "New York University? Well, what are you doing here?"

I'm living my life one day at a time. That's what. If I could have it to do all over again I would surely go to community college. I would work a part-time job at Burger King and take home free french fries every night. I would try not to give these people something to talk about over glasses of wine.

So there I stood, staring at this NYU bumper sticker in the back of the window and wondering why any rational adult would feel the need to have it displayed. A status symbol, perhaps. Another backhanded way of telling people that "I am better than you." This is my proof.

It's similar to one of those bumper stickers that say "my kid is an honor roll student at so-and-so elementary school." Really? Do you really think I care about your eleven-year-old honor roll student as I'm tailgaiting your Volvo and rolling through a yellow light?

I don't.

And I don't care where you went to school.

Just food for thought.

Vices...

Today, I had a discussion about alcohol. Usually, the only time I enjoy alcohol as a topic of conversation is when the bartender asks what kind of vodka I want in my tonic. This time was no different. I hate when people ask why you drink. It's a completely ridiculous question, like asking why you eat chocolate or wear the color red. Like asking a crack fiend why he smokes crack. He likes crack. It makes him feel better. It provides a brief escape from this big, twisted, rigid reality. Let's face it, alcohol really doesn't taste great. You're always going to meet people who say "I don't like the taste," or who will take a sip of your drink and make their face cringe like you just gave them a tall glass of sour milk. I don't care how many fancy garnishes you put on the rim of a martini, or what colorful fruity cute name you give it, you aren't drinking a Cosmopolitan because it's delicious. It isn't.




People will use one excuse after another to disguise the fact that they want a pretty little buzz at some point in the day. It really doesn't matter if you have one drink or ten, the motivation remains the same. Sure, some people drink when they are depressed or angry, or just because it's Tuesday. Some people drink to loosen up, to take the edge off of a long day. Obviously, people really shouldn't drink at all, but it makes no reasonable sense to point fingers. You might as well go around telling smokers that they shouldn't smoke and overeaters that they shouldn't eat. I'm fairly sure they are aware. But thank you for the memo.

My point here, other than confirming the fact that mostly I would prefer people to mind their own business, is that we all have our vices and our small means of escape. I'm pretty sure the majority of the free world has vices. Sex, drugs, talk shows, pick your poison. At least I'm not a serial killer. Buy me a screwdriver or get off my back.

The Idiot Box.

I am dangerously aware of the fact that I watch entirely too much television. But I have to admit, that some of the greatest life lessons, I have learned from those little 30-60 minute blocks of commercially packaged entertainment. They bring me pure, though transient, joy. And they also provide me with essential survival skills and intuition; such as not to get drunk or have sex on the first night of The Real World (or you will be eternally known as the "alcoholic" or the "slut"), the beautiful melodrama of teenage love triangles, how to find humor in terrible situations which are funny only because they aren't happening to you, becoming a celebrity in three easy steps (1. Be born rich, 2. Make a sex tape, 3. Do something stupid in public and/or in front of a camera), the fact that playing a doctor on TV is much more lucrative than becoming one in reality, and most importantly, that slipping into unconsciousness after a bottle of tequila and a kilo of cocaine is not overdosing, it is "exhaustion," and getting hospitalized is taking a "much needed rest." These are of course the most important, though I have become privy to a slew of such tidbits of knowledge.

All of these benefits considered, I have never once felt like an actual idiot for watching the so-called 'idiot box.' That was until last week, when I experienced the literally mind-numbing premiere of Fox's newest gameshow, Hole in The Wall.

Usually, when I think 'hole in the wall', I think of a small and quaint, no-frills no-fuss bar or cafe; or I think of an actual hole in a wall. Unfortunately, this gameshow has taken the form of the latter.

I will explain the rules, trying desperately to keep a straight face, and retain my own dignity as an American citizen. A foam wall slides towards the contestants, solid except for a human-sized cut-out in a ridiculous pose. Behind said contestant, is a shallow pool. If this person (clad in a shiny, metallic lycra leotard of some sort) is able to fit through the cut-out without getting pushed into the pool, then they win points.

Seriously, that's all there is to the game. And so we once again have another country (Japan, this time) to thank for this American adaptation of absolutely moronic proportions. How many times can you really say "Ha ha he fell in the water," without finally stabbing yourself in the eye.

And my, my how co-host (the always fabulous, though unfortunate) Brooke Burns has fallen. Someone cast this girl in something! Please! She's gorgeous! I honestly can't watch her host another D-list game show!

Witnessing shows like this take prime-time slots on television is a perfect example of why I'm so nervous about the Presidential elections in November. Fox might as well tie a twinkie to the end of a stick, tape the stick to our foreheads, and watch us run around for an hour.



I watch some admittedly stupid things, but come on, even an idiot like me has to draw the line somewhere!

Politickin'...

Ordinarily, I'm not one to talk politics. But I was literally shocked and dismayed (but a little excited for Obama) when John McCain announced his running mate earlier today. This morning he introduced first-term Alaska Governor Sarah Palin as his vice presidential hopeful, a surprising selection, to say the least. My best guess is that this plan was designed to get an edge in the race by appealing to women, and also trying to deter from the fact that he's 106 years-old and will be lucky to complete a full term should he happen to be elected.

"She's exactly who I need. She's exactly who this country needs to help me fight the same old Washington politics of 'Me first and country second,' " McCain declared. Funny that he is now claiming to be fighting against 'the same old Washington politics," considering he's stood tall behind just about every Bush vote and decision (each of which sent the U.S. spiralling further down into the toilet).

Palin, 44, the first Republican woman on a presidential ticket, stated, "I'm going to take our campaign to every part of our country and our message of reform to every voter of every background in every political party, or no party at all." That's an interesting promise for a Governor in a state with more reindeer than people. I certainly hope it's not like father like daughter, as Palin's dad has declared, "I'd rather go moose hunting than be involved with politics."

I don't know whether to be insulted by this blatant attempt to woo the female vote, or repulsed by the I'm-a-former-beauty-queen-and-you-could-easily-be-my-daddy Republican dream team. When it comes down to it, McCain is just a dirty old man, divorcing his crippled wife for a wealthy Junior Miss Rodeo Queen, and then picking Miss Alaska as his running mate. What a scumbag, and definitely not the man to be running this country. He'll probably dump America after two years for a younger, richer country.

McCain has made his decision public just six days after Barack Obama named Senator Joseph Biden of Delaware, as the other half of the Democratic ticket. Obama, 47, picked a 65-year-old running mate with long experience in government, foreign policy, and a man whom he said was qualified to be president. On his 72nd birthday, McCain chose a woman younger than two of his seven children, who has five young children of her own (ranging from 5 months to 19-years-old), who until recently was the mayor of small-town Wasilla, Alaska (population 9,000), has zero experience with foreign policy and has been governor less than two years.

The Obama campaign asked the most obvious and immediate question: is Sarah Palin prepared to step in and be President? Can America really be confident enough enough to say yes? I know I'm not.

In my opinion, McCain definitely dropped the ball here, which is only an advantage to the Democrats. The Republican party leaders will stand behind him of course, shifting in their seats as they try to dance around the topics of inexperience, foreign policy, and readiness to lead a nation (not a Caribou hunting tundra). Obama has been criticized repeatedly for lack of experience, and as such he brought more to the table with Biden. What in the world is McCain bringing? Beauty? A relative mystery? A woman with a growing family and children who still need her? Hmmm...I'm not sure what this will translate into for the coming campaigns. Will it help Obama? Did McCain have another 'Senior Moment'? America, you be the judge.

Barack the Vote!

Let's All Take it Down a Notch.

I can't stand people who take themselves too seriously. There, I said it. I'm an adult, not a very good one, but sane enough to realize that there are times to be somber, rational, defensive, complacent, offensive, accepting, open-minded, opinionated, adamant, etc. And then there are times to laugh, especially at yourself; even moreso at me. If you don't have the ability to do that, I urge you to please withdraw yourself from any and all conversations I am involved in, or might happen to stumble across. Because disagreeable, argumentative people contribute daily to the possibility that my head might actually explode.

Three-quarters of what comes out of my mouth is sarcasm, and purely in fun. Write that down. I try not to make time to be angry about trivialities. Ignorance is not synonymous with stupidity (or hostility), more often it refers to being uninformed, uneducated, or unaware. Frankly, I don't see a rhyme or reason for wasting the energy of a negative emotional response on someone who just doesn't know what they're talking about. If you want to fight ignorance, write an essay, teach a class, recommend a helpful textbook, but try stepping down off the high horse for a second and smelling the freaking roses. I don't need an introduction to some facet of anyone's inner angst on a continuous basis.

Fighting should be completely reserved for people with whom you will have just as much passion finding a resolution.

That being said, there are a few things that I refuse to talk about with people whom I know have or may have differing opinions. Politics. Religion. Race. These are hot button issues and the fact is that people do not simply discuss these issues, they debate them. They debate, they assert, they argue, and eventually someone gets offended and/or says something unnecessary. The last thing I want is love lost on what in the greater scheme of things, doesn't really matter. Make love not war, people. Please, please don't make me bring that slogan back. I have enough trouble not being a complete idiot, thanks.




The next time I sense an argument being intiated, I will stand up, clear my throat, and smile. I'm sure at this juncture, my companions will begin wondering why I'm standing, at which point I will say:

"Ahh, forget about it, let's go get some ice cream!"

You see how that works? Ice cream is the ultimate trump card. Besides, being angry gives you wrinkles, frowning tires out your face, and shouting strains your vocal cords. Not to mention you might get slapped. I choose agree to disagree, let's shake hands and pat eachother on the butt. Nice call, friend. Nice call.

Everyone loves a happy ending, and I love Javachip. So remember, If I tease you, yell at you, point at you and laugh... it's only love...just call me a bitch and eat your ice cream.

I feel better already:)

Geek Confessions.

Mmmm...bed.



For those who do not already know, I have contracted a mild case of insomnia (is there such thing as a mild case? I figure insomnia either is or is not, but I'm just trying to stay positive). Not that I am completely incapable of sleep, it just doesn't occur until I'm basically too exhausted to function. And even then it's for approximately two hours, until the blazing sunrays come streaming through my window and force me back awake.

At any rate, I've been trying to find creative ways to occupy my time, because really there aren't many non-sexual, non-detrimental, non-insane activities to do in the middle of the night, while the rest of the world sleeps. Guitar Hero is always a fantastic idea, but you can only play Aerosmith so many times before you develop carpal tunnel syndrome.

So, while experimenting with my new webcam (don't ask why), I discovered PhotoSuite.

PhotoSuite is awesome. I'm sure it's originally intended for cropping, eliminating red-eye, that sort of thing. You know, normal editing. I, however, have chosen to spend hours doing stupid things like this:

And this...

I know what you're thinking. And yes, if you don't have PhotoSuite already, you should get it now. For no other reason than to send your friends and family ridiculous pictures and/or waste time amusing yourself (again, in a non-sexual way).

On a side note, when I googled insomnia, I got this:

Thank you world wide web. When I typed "insomnia", I most surely meant "interracial cookie."

Case of the Lost Inhibitions

The elevator in my apartment building has always been an awkward place for me, mostly because my neighbors seem to be unaware of the unspoken rules of elevator ettiquette. You are travelling in a small metal box for anywhere from 15 seconds to a entire minute or more, which, can often feel like an eternity. Thus, depending on the situation, some of the rules can be bent (for example, do you say goodbye when you get to your floor, or just get off), but there are just certain things you do NOT do. And these certain things become all the more important when there are only two people.

The following is a brief recap of my experience in said elevator, and the rules that were broken:

I got on the elevator and could hear a man coming around the corner chatting away. I thought there was another person with him, but alas, no it was a cell phone. First rule broken, it is suuuper annoying when you have to hear the idiot on the cell yelling 'hello? hello? can you hear me? hello?' No they can't hear you, we're on a freaking elevator, end the call already!

He was so preoccupied stepping into the elevator while jerking around with his phone that he had failed to press a floor button, meaning he had also failed to turn back around to face the doors. Next rule broken, you don't stand face to face in an elevator with people you don't know. It's just plain weird.

So we're standing there, him staring at me, me pretending to check my bag for absolutely nothing, and he asks 'so, where are you from?' I look around stupidly, but obviously he is speaking to me and not my imaginary sidekick. The thing about Miami, is that when people ask you where you're from, you never know if they mean city, state or country. So when I replied, 'actually, I'm from Virginia,' he looked at me, puzzled, repeated 'Vir-hin-ya,' paused, and then said 'America?' I nodded yes, proceeded to keep faux-searching through my bag. Another rule broken, 15 seconds to 1 minute is not enough time to make new friends, this is not a bar, and you did not buy me a Martini.

I cleared my throat, and he eagerly asked what I said, to which I replied, 'nothing.' Another rule and note to strange man: silence is okay, no need to force it! You really don't have to converse with me.

So, after seemingly an eon (I only live on the 2nd floor), we arrived in the lobby. As he held the door open, there was the only rule he didn't break, you always let the ladies out first:)

Upon returning to my apartment after my fun in the elevator, I decided to order Chinese Food. All I wanted was General Tso's chicken, maybe some wonton soup.

I gave the lady on the phone my order, and she paused for a few seconds. She came back on the line and told me way too much information, i.e. this:

"Sorry, it's just, I'm drinking this tea, it's hot tea. But not the regular kind, it's called healthy liver function or something like that. It's for my liver, you know, it's messed up from all of the alcohol. At first I thought it was just my stomach, but then I had pain on the other side. I know it's from partying 3 days in a row. I wasn't supposed to drink last night, but then I went to the casino, so you know how that is. And afterwards my friends took me to a strip club to watch the IFC fight, and I mean, you pay a cover and then get 2 free drinks. Two free drinks? I was like hell yeah, bring 'em on. But anyway, now my liver kinda hurts, so I'm drinking this tea, and it's making me so hot. It isn't even really that hot ouside today, but now I'm sitting in front of a fan, which I probably shouldn't, because my mom told me that's how you catch a cold. You know, the change of temperatures and everything, going from warm to cool. I just hope this tea helps my liver...okay, so that's gonna be $12.85, cash or credit?"

I'm not even joking, the only words I managed to get in during her monologue were 'yeah,' 'right,' and 'oh.' Perhaps I'm just a great conversationalist, a wonderful listener, a friendly face, or all of the above. But really, elevator man, chinese food lady, next time I'd rather just get to my floor and pay for my egg roll in peace.

Thank you. Come again.

Incommunicado

Looking back, it's hard to remember life before having one of these:

Now, however, this little several hundred dollar gadget is my lifeline. I finally got it back today after having suspended service for almost an entire month. I felt like a piece of me had been missing, I actually wanted to conference call everyone in my phonebook and make a homecoming announcement. Text me! Call me! Love me! I'm back people! At any rate, after trying for 10 minutes to figure out how to accomplish this mass call, I decided that I am a ridiculous person, and put the phone back in my pocket.

Career Moves

My next job: Photo-Bomber.

http://www.asylum.com/2008/06/13/photobombers-ruining-your-picture-one-click-at-a-time/

There has to be some way to make money ruining precious memories, right?

Workout: Pho freaking Pah

As an avid gym-goer there are quite a few pet peeves I have, including but not limited to:

1) People who grunt...loudly, while lifting weights

2) People who give themselves motivational speeches on the treadmill (i.e. "come on! 2 more laps! let's go! you can do it!") outloud

3) People who talk on their cell phones while working out. Really, are you wasting your time or mine?

4) In general, people that spark conversations. I don't know you, this isn't speed dating, and clearly I have heavy weights in my hands and/or am running. Can this wait until Happy Hour?

5) I'm hesitant about this one because I am admittedly a heavy sweater, but seriously, bring a towel, they aren't paying me to wipe up after you.

Those being said, my absolute #1 loathe at the gym is the Hoverer. Listen, just because you asked me how many sets I have left on the machine, that doesn't give you the right to preside over me like a referee. You are allowed to linger, but hovering is unnacceptable. For those who don't grasp the difference let me explain:

A HOVERER is distinguished by the fact that if you accidentally dropped a dumbell it would probably land on their foot. You can clearly see this person in the corner of your eye as you are exercising, and he/she actually appears to be watching you. In addition, their water bottles are placed within arms reach. Listen Hoverer, I understand you want to get in and get out like the rest of us, but really, take a step back. I can't work out with your stare burning a hole in my tank top.

A LINGERER is someone who politely asks you when you will be finished, and accordingly fills the time with chatting with a buddy or watching a TV. This person will acknowledge that they are waiting, but not become as intimidating as to invade your personal space. Lingerers, while I don't ask for you, I accept your intentions.

The Moral: Get out of my freaking way or I'll hit you with a medicine ball.