3.30.2009

sock monkey slippers.

Clickety-click, click, click, whimper. My dog prances on the left side of my bed; I don’t stir. He skirts under the bed, to the right side. Click, clickety-click, click, whimper. I touch my phone, to check the time. 6:50 a.m. A mumbled “I hate you, Brody,” and I tumble out of bed.

I stand on the porch while Brody wanders oh-so cheerfully around the yard. Dry contacts won’t respond to feverish blinking; they remain glued to my eyeballs. Finally, focus. The black button eyes of my sock monkey slippers stare up at me, as if to say, “Really, you’re wearing me outside?”

I look like someone’s crazy aunt on Christmas morning. A get-up destined for TLC’s What Not to Wear. Slippers. Green plaid flannel pajama pants. Red fleece robe, complete with a gingerbread house on the front pocket; gingerbread men and gumdrops line the hood (only $6.24! Justifiable?). Hair styled after Albert Einstein. I should really be embarrassed by this.

Eh. I’m up. I can revert to normalcy later.

3.28.2009

run along, now.

“Hi, sssorry, butwwwould you mind doing a sssurvey?” I asked thirty or so spandex-clad runners this morning. My mouth was numb. I couldn’t control the slurring. I sounded like I’d just left the dentist’s office, trying to make sense with Novocained chipmunk cheeks. I wandered around with my clipboard for two hours, asking questions like, “Have yourrrraced thisssrun before?”

I should’ve worn a ski mask—I’m sure I would’ve been a crowd favorite. In my two sweatshirts, both hoods up, I felt like the little boy from A Christmas Story who’s bundled in so much winter padding he can’t put his arms down. (Sidenote: that scene is hilarious—the poor kid falls over in the snow and, despite his desperate rolling around, he can't get back up. Bet he was warm, though.) Imagine my shock at finding a handful of runners in t-shirts and Nike shorts. A fairly insane choice—the draft must’ve been something fierce.

When people told me they were running the 10K, I’d congratulate them with, “Nicccce” or “Wow, that’sss hardcore!” In high school, my friend and I went on a totally unnecessary let’s-get-in-shape kick. It lasted maybe two weeks. We’d run around a park track for thirty minutes after drill team practice, and by run, I mean jog for two minutes and walk for eight; repeat. It didn’t take long before we decided on a better plan: to sit on a park bench and watch people run while we ate sno cones. Needless to say, I doubt I’ll ever run in a 5 or 10K fundraising event. I admire people who do, though. Props to those who ran in the brutally cold weather this morning—consider me impressed.

3.27.2009

burning the razor.

I remember when I was a wee sixth-grader, standing fully-clothed in the bathtub, shaving my skinny little legs for the first time. I spent at least an hour on each leg; the process would’ve been faster if I’d used tweezers. But, beautifying takes time. Besides, teenagers shave their legs. This was another monumental initiation into girl world—preceded by ear-piercing and followed by “glamorizing” with make-up. I was certain that shaving was by far the coolest thing in the whole world. Gosh, I was just so lucky to be a girl!

I use to idolize shaving. Shaving. Which takes extra time getting ready. Which nicks my legs. Which leaves behind razor burn. Which looks and feels like the work of fire ants.

Yes, I'm definitely lucky. With Ginger Spice, I say, "Girl Power!"

3.26.2009

hunky teen heartthrob.

Confession: I love—like really love—Zac Efron. I’ll provide a scene from January, as proof...

“Waitwaitwait!” I hastily slip the bobby pin from my hair and shake my bangs loose. Across the eyes, finger-styled. I fidget three feet away from Krista in anticipation. My shoulders shimmy, my hands flutter. Almost, almost! Quick pause. Zac’s epiphany moment sounds and I slide on polka-dot socks to the base of our purple leather couch. Zac sings “All I have to do is believe,” but I sing “All I have new so you see.” Can’t remember the next line either, but I’ve mastered the move. I drop to my knees and lift invisible sand from the hardwood. Sift it through my fingers. Just like Zac. A burst in tempo pops me back on my feet and I skip-leap around the room, pumping my fist sporadically in the air. I look over and meet my roommate’s half-amused, half-scared eyes.

I don’t know why I thought a dance demonstration after High School Musical’s end would be a good plan. My animated, spastic version of “Bet On It” was an adaptation from the HSM sequel—the golf course scene. Krista, still fairly new as my roommate, hadn’t seen it. My superstar moment should’ve been enough to ensure she never would. To my extreme relief, it wasn’t—we rented HSM2 the next night.

But seriously. Zac Efron. Boy can dance. And he’s just so pretty. I’m sure he wouldn’t love my choice terminology on that, but he is pretty. That Rolling Stone cover...mmm.

EDIT: Krista just informed me that Zacky-boy dropped out of Footloose. Nooooooooooooooo! No, no, no, no, NO! Nooo-oo-ooo-oooo. This is just terrible. Terrible, terrible, terrible. Maybe watching HSM3 will cheer me up. Yes, I own it. With pride.

3.25.2009

they call it mastication.

The word sounds provocative. Say it: "mastication." Sort of gritty, raunchy, scandalous. The real meaning—simply to chew on something—is almost disappointing. If I heard it while I was still in junior high, I'd probably find myself in a situation like this...

Sara sits quietly at the end of a long cafeteria table, staring at the lunch her mother packed for her that morning, the same as every morning and every lunch period. A boy, Freddie, turns around in his seat. The other boys giggle in anticipation.

Freddie spits out the question, "Are you masticating?" A peal of laughter erupts from his buddies. Extremely embarrassed, Sara mutters, "I...umm...n-n-no. I mean...what?" The color in her cheeks matches her pink and red speckled frames. Unfortunately, the glasses cover half her face and magnify her blush.

Freddie can barely manage to explain through his laughter that "it just means chewing, geez! Don't have a panic attack."

"Girls..."

The meaning of "mastication" is nothing like what a junior higher expects. I still think it's a weird word. Truth be told, I tend to lean more toward the giggling boy reaction when I read or hear it. As poet Ogden Nash said, "You are only young once, but you can stay immature indefinitely." Thanks, Ogden, I think I will.

kneaded some love.

I’m not the pampery type. The thought of a stranger rubbing his or her digits all over my bare skin has always been far from tempting. Last Thursday, I momentarily forgot this. I let a friend sucker me into my first massage session with two words: “my treat.”

“I’m a lover,” my masseuse reassured me as she swooped over the bed, pantomiming the press and pull she was about to conduct on my body. “I get so into it—so close. No one’s complained yet. I just have so much love to give!” She dimmed the lights, whispering, “There, that’s better. Just slip out of your clothes and under the covers—I’ll be right back.” Before closing the door, she winked at me.

A thickset, fifty-something woman batted her lashes at me, right after dishing instructions to get naked and wait for her.

I don’t think so, lady.

Despite my instinctive desire to run-run-run, I stayed. The heated bed lulled me into immobility. My masseuse slipped back in, but I didn’t hear her. She worked her palms firmly over my shoulders, down to my love-handles. Felt like she was kneading dough. Felt. So. Good.

“I hate to wake you,” my masseuse cooed an hour later. “You look like a princess, or an angel. How do you feel?”

“Mmgoodnice...mhmm.”

In other words, I’d definitely enlist the matronly “lover” as my every-morning masseuse. Or at least I would if I was making bank. Unfortunately, babysitting money can’t go that far. Unfair life.