Meet Gym Grunters

You know what I hate? Gym Grunters. I know, when you say that aloud, it sounds like the name of a real estate agent with bushy sideburns. But I'm not referring to that Jim Grunters. I'm referring to those really annoying buffheads at the gym who think they're being impressive when they make orgasma noises while working out.

Here's a newsflash: KNOCK IT the EFF OFF! You are not cool. You are not sexy. You do not make me want to 'do' you. You do not impress me. You are not as strong as you think you are. You look like an idiot. You look like a retard. You look like a retarded idiot!

Let's just get something straight here: I pushed an 8-pound child through my 1-inch-diameter hoo-ha and didn't grunt as much as the idiot at LA Fitness this morning. The entire building shook. There were large ripples in the olympic-sized pool. Fat ladies' cellulite shimmied. All because of our hero, Gym Grunters, who undoubtedly ended his workout with a cigarette and nap.

Honestly, I was ready to murder him. I'm pretty sure I could have gotten away with it -- you know, the 'self-defense' defense. Like, "were I not to kill him, I surely would have killed myself." But instead of taking an ax to his grunting head, I skipped my second set of the lower bitorsal lunge presses and headed for home. Now my bitorsals will be all off balance. One side bigger than the other and shit.

Thanks, Gym Grunters! Thanks a lot.

P.S. My apologies for not posting more often. I received some very shocking and horrible news recently...I got a job. Alas, my year of unemployment ends. It was quite a ride. While I haven't yet started (Sept 5), I find myself trying to milk my last moments of laziness. The good news is that "where there are people trying to act important, there are many a blog to be written."

Cracker Jaxass

You know what I hate? The Cracker Jax. I don't want to hate them. I want to love them. Want my big front teeth to crack the caramel coating only to expose the spongy sinew of the popcorn inside. Want to bust a bridge on the Boston Baked Beanesque peanuts. Want to revel in the fact that I'm eating a healthy snack, because the box tells me it's Fat Free.

I've loved the Cracker Jax in my past. They've been good to me. Cheered me up when I was low. Comforted me when I was lonely. When Fiddle Faddle came in and tried to monopolize the candy-coated popcorn market, I'd have none of it! Because the Cracker Jax was yummy. And it was a snack with a toy "surprise" in every box. That, in my book, is called a Happy Meal. And what kid wouldn't commit to a life of loyalty to the brand that tosses a toy in every box?

But my love affair is dwindling. My loyalty sharply waning. Why? It's all because of that damned little toy "surprise."

Let me just premise this rant with this observation: Lately, the "surprise" is finding a peanut in the box! It used to be that you'd get at least a nut in every bite. And then, once you got to the bottom of the box…two words: peanut frenzy. Cuz peanuts like to lay low. I respect that. In fact, this low-laying theory introduced me to my first scientific principle: Things in motion tend to stay in motion; things that are really tasty but heavy tend to fall to the bottom of the box, so go ahead and open that effer up from the wrong end. Or something to that effect. I haven’t been to school for 15 years, so I don’t remember it exactly.

But the chinziness with the nuts is actually the least of my worries. What really, really concerns me is the caliber of “surprise” that they’re passing off as “fun” lately.

I’ll admit it – I get an increased pulse when I open a box of the Cracker Jax, bottom’s up, and rattle my hand around until I feel the little square “surprise”. I’m thinkin’…tattoo, sticker, tiny coloring book, maybe something involving harmless dyes and my tongue. I’m pretty easy going.

But then I tear the perforations off and find this bitch?!?

First of all, never heard of this dude. What century is he supposedly from? Secondly, I am a girl. I don’t like sports or the guys who play them. B-O-R-I-N-G. Thirdly, you expect me to read a bio in the name of “fun” and “toy” and “surprise”? Since when did reading become fun? I missed that memo.

And check out the front of the “surprise.”

Collector’s Item? Really? So, like, in 100 years, my great-great grandchildren can book their flight to the Smithsonian and cash in on ma-maw’s mint-condition baseball bio? Sweet! I’m gonna go ahead and spend the inheritance I’ve been saving up. Clearly, they won’t need it.

Hating the 80s

You know what I hate? That 'The 80s' are back in style. I said goodbye to my leg warmers, my drop-waisted dresses, my lace-fringed leggins and my flourescent green string-bean tie. And I haven't really missed them.

The issue I have with 'The 80s' being back in style is that 92% of the population of Arizona is still wearing clothes and hairstyles from that decade! Walk onto the campus of any local call center and you'll feel immediately transported to a Tiffany concert. Spiral perms, teased bangs, sun-tanned hoisery. Ouch!

Except now, these spandex-donning-has-beens are on the cutting edge of au couture! And I, in my bootcut pants (I refuse to buy "skinny jeans" in a size 14 -- the irony is too overwhelming), will appear so...last year.

Say it ain't so.

The fact is, it's too soon for the styles of 'the 80s'to come back. I'm a child of that decade, and I haven't even had my 20 year reunion for God's sakes. Didn't we skip a few decades to resurrect? I haven't seen a poodle skirt in my lifetime, yet I'm having to weather the Flashdance fringe-sweatshirt twice? How is that fair?

I just finished growing my hair out --bangs and all. It was pure hell getting there. And it's all for naught! Because in order to be 80's glam, I'm gonna need to taper the sides a bit.

Like this, from my sophomore yearbook:

On the left! (I included my cross-margin counterpart as a public service reminder that pot does indeed kill brain cells.)

Go ahead. Make a joke or two about my appearance.

"What do you get when you sandwich a cherrio between two petrified marshmallows? MY EARRINGS!"

"The Flock of Seagulls called -- they said Fred Flinstone wants his hairstyle back!!"

Funny. Yeah, funny. I'm laughin' all the way to Supercuts.

Vicki Bo Peep

You know what I hate? When you spend a lot of time needlessly wondering why you are the way you are. I tend to fixate on the fact that my parents are tidy, and their home is like that in a magazine, and they're always fashionable and well-groomed and clean. And me and my kids can tend to be, well, the opposite.

And I sometimes doubt my adequacy as a parent when I do something completely unbourgeois such as declare it "popsicle breakfast day" or "wear our slippers to the grocery store day" or "we can brush our teeth tomorrow day."

I just can't deny it anymore. I'm totally ghetto. And I've been wondering how the hell I got this way when my parents and sisters are so seemingly respectable.

And then, the other day, I came across this:

Contrary to what you might be thinking, this is NOT part of the ad campaign for the remake of 'Heidi.' It is actually a picture of me at age four and a half. On my farm. With my pet goat. Barefooted. And no, that's not spilled cocoa puffs off to the left of the picture. It is, in fact, goat turdlets.

Laugh all you want. But I was glad to reacquaint myself with this picture, because now I know. I know why I am the way I am. Why I am a white-trash hick. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But now I can stop wondering.

I do have some questions for my parents after finding this image. Questions such as: 'how long since my knees were cleaned?' and 'what did we have against hairbrushes?' and 'did the ASPCA know our goat had no water?' and 'Dad -- weren't you a structural engineer? I thought so. So why did our goat live under a shanty-town shack?' These are important issues. I may never know the answers.

But what I do know, finally, is that the person I am today is due to my roots. My little hobo-girl upbringing. It's not 'just me.' My parents were ghetto once, too. And I now have proof. See? So there's hope for me. One day, I'll outgrow my white-trashiness like my parents did. If I'm lucky.

Reward: For the safe return of 5 spoons and 18 carmexes

You know what I hate? Magically disappearing items. It seems that there are some household components that are simply hellbent on sprouting legs and finding a better life elsewhere. I can think of no other explanation for the fact that some items consistently turn up missing in my household.

The biggest offenders -- it's a tie -- are socks and spoons. I swear to God that every time I do a load of laundry, I find at least 4 sock widows. Where are they all going? To dance and rock out at lollaPAWlooza? To party it up with other cotton co-eds at Club PED? To feast and dine on MooSHOE Pork at the Chen Wok down the street? Seriously, WHERE ARE THEY? They're not under my bed. They're not in the kids' toyboxes. They're not behind the washing machine. They literally VANISH. Somebody, please explain.

And spoons? I used to have 'service for 8' but now I'm down to 3 spoons. (I'm talking the normal sized spoons, not the monster spoons that were designed for NBA players and Big Foot. The kind where you can basically skip the bowl and just pour your soup right into the spoon reservoir. I still have all eight of those.) Where are my spoons? And why are all the butter knives still intact? I really need a conspiracy expert to help me out here.

Other items always missing when you need them: the tie that actually comes with your robe, leaving you to bungee your pretty silk komono shut; bobby pins, which you purchase in packs of 100 and run out of every 30 days, meaning you somehow lose 3 per day which is unbelievifying considering you rarely wear bobby pins; corn on the cob holders, half of which get ground up in your garbage disposal, the other half of which join the socks and bobby pins in the great abyss leaving you to try and gingerly hold a steaming hot and greased up cob without permanently damaging your fingerprint; a pen -- any pen -- or even a pencil, crayon, highlighter -- to jot down a number when you're on the phone; the receipt for the pants that are too tight for your fat ass (though you have every other receipt for any items purchased in the past year in your bulbous wallet -- your $2.10 trip to QT, your tampons at Walgreens, your entire family's movie ticket stubs for "Cars"); and last, but not least, lip balm -- loads of lip balm (seriously, have you ever actually finished a chapstick before losing it?).

I am dying to know WHERE THESE ITEMS ARE GOING? What am I missing here? What lies beyond the world that I know? Is there some type of alternate universe where spoons and chapstick are idolized? Am I alone in experiencing this phenomenon?

Man's Best Friend

You know what I hate? The way my dogs insist on annoying me with phlegm-based noises all night long. The way they carry on with their slurping and sucking, you'd think they were starring in their own doggie porn video.

The most annoying factor of the slurping that takes place every night is the variety. So many noises! So few mouths! The hell?

First, there is BoeDee. He was chosen for his unadoptable qualities when he shone his ghastly underbite at me during "mutant dog adoption week" at PetsMart. He's ugly, morbidly overweight, wiry and makes more 'slurpies' than a crowded 7-11! He alternates gnawing and sucking, gnawing and sucking, much like what you might do when faced with a particularly leathery slice of beef jerky. If I need to get up for any reason during the night, I usually tread lightly, as I'm convinced one of these days I'm going to step on his bloody, detached gnaw-paw.

Then, there's Asia. She is the more sleek and attractive of the duo. Soft fur, normal girth, teeth that aren't screaming for a headgear. Her method of sucking makes me want to commit harey carey. Honestly. It's slow, deliberate, almost perverse. And its rhythm never changes: tongue rolling out, long slow slurp, tongue rolling in, repeat. Chinese water torture's got NOTHIN' in this maddening torment.

Her tedious, repetitious cacophony is sometimes punctuated by what I can describe only as "there's a flea on me so I'm gonna snot it to death." This usually occurs in the dead of night, when everyone is sound asleep, only to be awakened by a spastic jingling collar, pig-like snorting, and an amazing display of doggie flexibility as she somehow gets her nose to the top of her back. She nibbles at the phantom flea the way I eat my corn on the cob...if I were eating corn on the cob while blowing my nose on it.

They say that dog is man's best friend. But, apparently, 'man' hasn't spent a night in my house!